


A Somewhat Terrible Idea

by randomsquare



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 67,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: When Emma Swan gets an invitation to her ex's wedding, she isn't expecting to find it still hurts. Determined not to "lose the break-up", Emma recruits the snarky Irishman she chases down bail jumpers with, to assist her in her somewhat ill-conceived plan to save face. Absolutely nothing could go wrong, right? Captain Swan AU. M for swears.





	1. Chapter 1

It was just an envelope. The expensive kind, sure, fashioned of heavy card stock and the address made out with some kind of ornate calligraphy, but just an envelope. But for Emma, the envelope held a weight that only she could detect. One that pressed against her chest, and squeezed at her throat. It felt like finality.  _Defeat._

He was really fucking marrying her.

* * *

It wasn't like she didn't know it was coming. Neal was a pretty shitty father, all things considered, but he'd at least pretended to consult his ten year old son before he'd gotten engaged. Which of course meant that it had only taken Henry, freshly dropped off from a weekend with his Dad in New York (of course Neal didn't walk him to the door) all of five seconds to spill the beans. His backpack was still on, for chrissakes.

Neal and Tamara were getting married.

Henry had continued waxing lyrical in that adorably precocious way of his, putting away his toys whilst talking pizza and ducks in Central Park and bagels with cream cheese, without pausing for breath. He didn't seem to realise that Emma wasn't listening. Couldn't listen. Until the glass she'd been holding had exploded in her hand.

Emma looked down, dazed, at the mess of broken glass, and the thin trail of blood that was starting to run down her palm

"Mom?" Henry had stopped mid-anecdote. "Are you okay?"

Emma shook herself. "Son of a bitch. Sorry kid, stay right there, okay? I don't want you cutting yourself."

"You're bleeding." She looked down. The blood had trailed down her finger tips now and was dripping onto the floor.

She shuffled towards the sink, trying to avoid stepping on any broken glass in her socks, and ran her hand under water. It didn't seem to be stopping.

"Hey kid, would you be able to get me the first aid kit, under the sink in the bathroom?" Henry disappeared down the hall, reappearing a few minutes later with his quarry. Getting it to her would prove a bit more challenging, separated as they were by scattering of broken glass. Henry squished his face up in that endearing way that meant he was thinking, until he just climbed onto the breakfast bar, and walked across the kitchen benchtop towards her.

He sat down on the draining board, little legs swinging against the cabinets, and reached into the box on his lap, pulling out a handful of Band-Aids bearing Disney characters.

"Do you want Peter Pan, or Captain Hook?" Henry asked, examining the options. Emma froze involuntarily.

It was entirely the wrong moment for this. The association wasn't a pleasant one. Once upon a time, Emma had been a  _Lost Girl._ Neal a  _Lost Boy._ It was something they'd bonded over, having been abandoned and rejected over and over, by their parents, by the system, by everyone who should have known better. Emma thought she'd finally broken the cycle when she'd met Neal. Finally been found. She should have known better.

"Captain Hook," she replied, more than a hint of vindictiveness in her choice. Henry nodded approvingly.

She patted her hand dry with a dish towel, and presented it to her son, who very carefully applied the Band-Aid.

"Nice work, kid." She went to move her hand away, but Henry stopped her.

"You're forgetting the most important part!"

"I am?" He shot her an exasperated look, one which clearly said  _grownups are idiots._

"A kiss, to make it better!" He bent down, and delivered a very soft kiss to the bandaged cut, and Emma felt her heart swell with love for her son.

One day soon, he'd stop believing in this stuff. She suspected he already had his suspicions about Santa and the Easter Bunny, but was milking it for more presents. Soon, he wouldn't even bother pretending anymore, and he would metamorphoses into a grumpy, monosyllabic teenager seemingly overnight. But for now, she still had her sweet boy, and he was all hers. Well, except for summer vacation and alternate weekends, anyway.

"Are you sure you're okay, Mom?" Henry was using the big eyes on her. Neal's eyes. She loved her son, but how she wished he looked a little less like his father sometimes.

"I'm just a klutz." She ruffled his hair. "You said something about a castle in Central Park?" And suddenly the motormouth was running a million miles an hour, and the eyes darted away as he recalled adventure after adventure, and Emma could breathe again.

* * *

So when the envelope arrived it was not entirely unexpected. That was what happened, after all, wasn't it, when someone agreed to marry you? You got married. That's how it was supposed to go. And so here it was.

Once Emma had gotten her breathing under control, she had called Henry into the living room, and they'd opened it together. It contained a written formal request that Henry do Neal the honour of being his best man. It was a move which some would have considered sweet, and Henry looked suitably proud. Emma found it cloying, but she bit her lip to keep her tongue in check. She wouldn't ruin Henry's moment. He was going to have an important role to play in his Dad's life, which was something that he deserved, something that she knew he craved, and she wasn't going to let herself be bitter about it.

It also came with two invitations. One addressed to the best man.  _Henry Swan_. Which she'd expected. And one to her.  _Emma Swan and guest_.

Was it usual to invite your Baby Mama to watch you waltz off into the sunset with another woman? Was Tamara really okay with her being there? Or was she just a convenient babysitter for Henry? She almost picked up the phone, determined to find out, but she found her attention drawn back to the invite.

_Emma Swan and guest._

A plus one? Surely Neal didn't expect her to bring a date to this thing? Not when her role would clearly be wrangling an overexcited Henry, so as not to overwhelm the newlyweds. It's not like she was seeing anyone. He  _knew_  she wasn't seeing anyone. Never saw anyone. Not since, well… Henry. And whose fucking fault was that?

Was it a none-too-subtle reminder that she was alone? That she needed to move on already? Or was it just a simple courtesy?

She didn't know. But something about it bothered her. As she examined the invitation again, an idea began to form.

* * *

"You're out of your fucking mind, Swan." Killian handed her back the invitation, so that he could line up his final shot. The dart missed its mark by rather a lot, and he scowled. He whirled around again, fingers searching for his glass. Emma grabbed it before him, and held it out of his reach.

"What is this, ransom?" he looked affronted. "There's no fucking way, love. Good thing for me, there's more where that came from," and he sidestepped her, making his way back towards the bar.

She grabbed him by the elbow, and to his detriment, he glanced at her. She was pulling out all the stops, doe eyes and pouted lips.

"You know it isn't in my nature to beg." He snorted in agreement.

"So why change the pattern of a lifetime, eh?" he looked pointedly at her hand still on his arm, and reluctantly, she let him go. He took advantage of her lapse in attention to grasp the glass out of her other hand and drain it in one gulp.

"Anything from the bar, love?" he smirked, rolling his empty glass in his fingers. Emma groaned.

"The usual. And make it a double." He grinned wickedly at having won the exchange, and turned away.

* * *

It was a terrible idea. Emma couldn't deny that. But it was one that had planted itself in her mind, and now her course was set. She wouldn't be dissuaded from it. Not even by a stubborn Irishman without an ounce of human compassion.

Killian hadn't exactly been her first choice. Not that there were a lot of viable candidates, exactly. Emma was a bailbondswoman. The kind of guys one encounters in that line of work are usually confined to the ones buying a one-way ticket to Mexico, unconcerned their grandmothers are going to be tossed out on their asses after having put their houses up for collateral. Not an altogether savoury or thoughtful bunch.

The agency Emma worked in was small. One might even go so far as to say tiny. David Nolan ran the place, and Emma and Killian traced the skips. David's wife, Mary Margaret, handled the phones. It was a ramshackle little endeavour, but between the four of them, they made it work.

Not a lot of people would have given someone like Emma a shot, with a record and a kid to boot, but the Nolans hadn't even hesitated, welcoming Henry and Emma both into their little patchwork family. They spent Thanksgivings together. Christmases too. They didn't judge. And when Neal re-entered the scene, just before Henry turned eight, apparently eager to connect with the son he'd never known, they'd refused to fully warm to him, like the true friends they were.

* * *

"No little lad tonight, then?" Killian returned, a double whiskey in hand. Emma never drank on nights she had Henry. But he was in New York this weekend with Neal, getting fitted for his little Best Man outfit. As much as the whole idea of the wedding grated on her, the image of her little man in a tiny tux wasn't an unappealing one, and she made him promise to take pictures from the fitting.

"He's in New York," she replied, taking the offered drink, and draining it with one tip of the glass. Killian gave her a wary look.

"Steady, love. I shan't go easy on you just because you're inebriated," he turned his attention back to the game.

"There'll be an open bar," she sing-songed, her case still not finished.

"Swan, it's not the free booze I'm opposed to. It's the occasion." He gripped her by the shoulders, and looked her level in the eye. "I. Don't. Do. Weddings."

"Are you sure? You'd look pretty good in a suit…" She let her eyes rake over him briefly, and she saw something spark in his eyes before he shook it away.

"Don't appeal to my vanity, Swan. It's beneath you."

"You're really going to let me go alone? To be shunned and whispered about by strangers?"

"You're being dramatic."

"I don't want him to win," she admitted, defeated.

"To win?" He raised an eyebrow.

"The break-up. I don't want him to win."

"Why, because he's moved on faster?" He shook his head. "Whatever happened, you got the little lad out the break-up. I'm pretty sure you won." She smiled at his logic, but it didn't help her case.

"No one else will see it that way. You know they won't. I'll look like the pitiful ex-girlfriend, secretly wishing the happy couple ill."

"Which you may or may not be?" He had her there. "Who cares what a bunch of strangers think anyway? It's not worth concocting this elaborate deception."

"You're a bailbondsman. You deceive people  _all the time!_ "

"Aye, for the greater good," he scratched behind his ear.

"And this isn't for the greater good?"

"I'm not going to be your pretend boyfriend, Swan. So shut up, have a drink, and stop distracting me while I'm taking my turn."

* * *

Emma awoke to the sound of incessant banging. Had her neighbour decided to engage in a little impromptu DIY? Was she going to have to kill him? Her head was pounding, and her mouth felt like dry cotton. The banging continued unabated.

"Swan?" Confused, Emma sat up, which was evidently a mistake, because her headache worsened considerably. It was Killian, standing in her doorway. Shirtless Killian. And for a second, she couldn't recall why he was there, until something clicked and the previous night returned to her in a flash.

Whiskey. Lots of whiskey. More drunken singing than was usually advisable. Killian walking her home. Her offering him the couch. And blessed, uninterrupted sleep. Until now.

"Expecting someone?" He asked, eyes shooting to the front door, which was apparently the source of the commotion. He was trying to smooth out his bedhead, and the sight was somewhat distracting to her hungover brain.

"Swan!" Killian's voice shook her from her reverie. "Is the little lad due back?"

"Not 'til tomorrow," Emma couldn't keep her head raised any longer and fell back onto the pillows.

"Alright," Killian voice rumbled. "I'll get rid of them."

She heard him as he made his way to the front door, muttering curses under his breath the whole time. And then she heard him open the door.

"Emma?" Killian shouted. He never called her that. "You'd better get out here." His tone was urgent, and Emma scrambled out of bed, stopping only to grab a robe to pull over her nightdress. Rushing into the living room, she was caught off guard by a hug from her ten year old son.

"Henry? What are you doing back this early? And why didn't you use your key?" And then she looked past him to see Neal standing in the doorway, giving Killian a death glare. Just brilliant. Of all the times to walk Henry up to the apartment.

To his credit, Henry seemed completely unaware of any and all tension in the room.

"Hey Killian." Henry greeted, nonchalantly, kicking off his sneakers.

"Hey lad." Killian clapped him on the shoulder. "Want to come into the kitchen for a snack with me real quick? If I know your mother, there's got to be some Pop-Tarts in there somewhere. I think the grownups need to talk." Emma gave him a grateful nod.

At the magical word  _snack,_ Henry was sold, and his eyes lit up.

"Bye Dad!"

"I'll see you, buddy," Neal called from the doorway, raising an arm in farewell. And then the prospect of food won out, and Henry trotted after Killian.

Neal waited until he'd disappeared from view to launch in.

"What the fuck, Emma?"

Her head was still throbbing, so surely she hadn't heard him right.

"Me? What the fuck Neal? It's Saturday. You had him the whole weekend."

"Something came up with the church. We have to drive to Maine to sort it out."

"And you couldn't call me?"

"Had I known you spend your weekends off fucking a random leprechaun, maybe I would've."

"Are you kidding me right now?" He paused to give her a once over. His look said he wasn't impressed.

"Are you… hungover?"

"It's Saturday! And you didn't call me! I can do whatever the fuck I like!"

"Including the leprechaun."

"Jesus Christ, you aren't doing this."

"I deserve to know who is spending time with my son." Emma knew a cop out line when she heard one.

"Henry wasn't even supposed to be here! And it's Killian. You know Killian. You've met him. More than once! At David and Mary Margaret's? I've worked with him for the last five years!"

"And that's not all, apparently," Neal sneered. Emma was ready to launch herself at his throat, when Killian appeared around the corner.

"I'll give you both fair warning. These walls," he rapped a knuckle on one. "Pretty thin." That sobered both of them pretty quickly, but Neal was still eyeing Killian, or moreover Killian's shirtless figure, with more than a little suspicion.

Emma located his shirt from last night hanging off the edge of the sofa, and bundled it up in her hands.

"Perhaps if everyone was decent?" she offered, throwing Killian the shirt. Mercifully, he put it on, but not without an incendiary wink at Emma first.

Emma watched Killian hesitate, and then amble forwards towards Neal, a false smile plastered on his face.

"I haven't had the chance to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials." He brandished a hand forward, and Neal took it by instinct, staring at his own traitorous hand in surprise as it shook Killian's, the picture of civility.

"Bloody brilliant news. I know the lad is really excited." Killian chanced a glance at Emma, who was sending him  _abort mission_ signals with her eyes. He grinned wider.

"We hadn't told Henry about all of this, you see," Killian motioned between he and Emma. "Hadn't found the right moment, as it were. What with your news, we didn't want to overwhelm him with change, so you'll excuse the shock. It appears the jig is up!" And with that, he went and stood next to Emma, and placed a hand around her waist. If she'd had any presence of mind, she'd bat him away, but what with the hangover, and the surprise sneak attack, she was too curious as to where he was going with this. She leaned into him a little, and the opportunistic bastard went in for a boob grab. Emma subtly brought her foot down hard on his, and Killian faltered a little, and became instantly less handsy. Fortunately, Neal didn't notice any of this, busy leaning on the doorframe, grappling at the news.

"So, you two are…" Neal began.

"Together." Killian supplied. "Yes. A rather surprising but very welcome development." He smiled at Emma an infuriatingly smug smile.

Emma wasn't sure how he bought it, but Neal looked suitably sickened by the display.

"And we'll be seeing you at the wedding, looks like!" Killian responded jovially.

At the word wedding, Neal seemed to remember his very urgent trip to Maine, and his future bride he'd left downstairs in the car.

"Ah, yes. Wedding. Speaking of…" he motioned out into the hallway. "Better get going."

"Of course," Killian replied, hugging Emma tighter to him.

"Ah, sorry again Ems. I'll call you about another weekend."

"Bye Neal."

When Neal finally left, Killian removed his hand and took a step away from Emma.

"What the hell was that!?" Emma whispered angrily as Killian flopped down onto the sofa.

"I've decided I am going to help you win your break-up, after all," he answered breezily.

"So what happened to Mr. "I Don't Do Weddings"?" Emma asked, failing in her imitation of his accent, before taking a seat beside him.

"Pop-Tarts are ready!" Henry's tiny voice called from the kitchen.

"Ah! Excellent!" Killian stood up, and raised an eyebrow at Emma, who hadn't moved. "Not coming to breakfast, then?"

"Killian…" Her voice was weary. He bent down until their faces were level, his impossibly blue eyes meeting her green ones.

"He called me a leprechaun, Swan. A leprechaun."


	2. Chapter 2

There was a sticking point. There always was, in every plan. And in Emma's?

Henry.

Tamara and Neal lived in New York. Emma and Henry, in Boston. Neal had no family, and no friends left from the good ol' days. Tamara's family hailed from a small, close-knit town in Maine, where the wedding was going to be held. Emma and Neal had no one in common, to contradict the lie. No one at all. Except Henry.

Could she really lie to him? Her own son? And for what, to make herself seem like less of a loser in front of a bunch of strangers? To piss off Neal? To enact some petty revenge on someone else's happiness? What kind of example did that set? What kind of parent did that make her? She didn't want to examine the answer to that too closely.

But Killian had unintentionally started the ball rolling the moment he'd opened the door sans shirt, and now Neal had been fed the spiel. It was already too late to turn back now.

There would have to be ground rules.

* * *

"Are you seriously writing these down?"

"I'm keeping us accountable!"

"Culpable, is more like. For someone who chases paper trails all day, you're not all that concerned with creating them, are you?"

Emma stuck out her tongue at him.

"Now, now Swan. Mind your manners. Am I, or am I not, doing you a rather large favour, having asked for nothing in return?" His tone was all innocence, but there was a gleam in his eye that Emma didn't like the look of. He needed distracting.

"So who is this guy, anyway?" Emma asked, indicating the house that they had been staking out for the last half hour.

"Gerry Whale." Killian recited, as if he was reading off a list. "Violated a protection order. Didn't show up for his court date this morning."

"Domestic abuse?" Emma asked, a chill entering her voice.

"Put his ex-wife in the hospital a year ago. Beat her with a metal pipe." Killian's tone was trying for emotionless, his accent becoming more pronounced with the effort. "A few weeks ago he apparently showed up at her workplace unannounced, asking for her back. She called the cops."

"Naturally," Emma motioned for him to continue.

"His mother was the one who put up the bail. Used her house as collateral. He won't be showing up on her doorstep any time soon, so long as he's MIA. Which leads us here." Killian motions towards the half brick Victorian house on the left. "The brother's house. Victor. A surgeon. Quite a good one, apparently. Testified on his brother's behalf for his assault and battery charge. Said what an all-round top bloke he was. How he'd never attack anyone without provocation, least of all his wife." Killian's placid façade was beginning to crack around the edges. "May have been a factor in the judge's leniency. Twelve months' probation with court-ordered anger management counselling." He looked over at her then, at her hands clenched tightly to her notebook.

"Careful Swan. He may be human filth, but he's  _my_  meal ticket. I won't let you unleash any…" he waved a hand vaguely in front of her, "redneck justice on him."

"Redneck justice? Really?"

"What? I never know what you Americans are going to do next. One minute you're enjoying a quiet celebratory pint, the next you're helping apprehend a man dressed as a flying monkey in the middle of the St Patrick's Day parade!"

That had happened last year. Even more mortifyingly, a photographer from the  _Globe_ had captured the take-down, and it had made the front page, under the fold. David had it framed for the office. Emma was  _never_ going to live that down. Killian would ensure it.

"That was a one off," Emma scoffed.

"Jesus Christ, Swan, you could have at least waited until the man had gotten the wings off to cuff him!" Killian was enjoying this trip down memory lane entirely far too much.

"He should have honored his court date…" Emma mumbled haughtily, crossing her arms, and turning to look out the window.

Killian laughed.

"You're a tough lass."

"And don't you forget it, buddy."

* * *

One and a half packets of Twizzlers and a coffee later, there was still no sign of the illustrious Gerry Whale, nor his better-heeled brother. Inevitably, Emma's attention wandered, returning to the notebook she was still holding, and the beginnings of a list scribbled inside.

There was only one point on which they had both unequivocally agreed.

_**Henry doesn't get hurt.** _

"So how will this work?" Killian paused in his demolition of a bag of Funyuns to quirk an eyebrow at Emma's words.

"We slam the cuffs on if he shows up?" He mumbled uncertainly through a mouthful of snacks.

"Not Gerry," Emma rolled her eyes. "The wedding date situation."

"Ah." Killian swallowed down the last of the Funyuns. "My grand fake-boyfriend debut!"

"I'm regretting this already," Emma muttered, bringing a Twizzler up to her mouth. In an instant, Killian grabbed it from her hand a second before she had been about to bite, and had devoured the lot. She just stared at him in disbelief.

"Just getting in practice, love. Sharing food. A very fake boyfriend thing to do." He winked. Emma rolled her eyes again.

"I believe running a con is your speciality, is it not, Swan? So why don't you tell me the plan?" An occupational hazard of working alongside someone who digs up dirt on others, they tend not to draw the line at clients.

"Don't," she warned.

"I didn't mean…" Killian reconsidered his approach. "I just meant, you know how to lie. Keep it simple. Mix in a liberal dose of truth. You'll be less likely to make a misstep."

" _I'll_ be less likely to make a misstep?" Killian groaned.

" _We'll_ be less likely to make a misstep. Better?"

"Much." Emma leaned across the console and grabbed Killian's coffee, taking a long sip, smiling at Killian's look of dismay.

"Practice," she shrugged, as she handed it back to him. He glowered at her before continuing with his original thought.

"So we agree that the only people we really need to try to convince are Neal, and Henry, right?" Emma's gut sank like a stone at the thought.

"Right. And general wedding guests. But that'll just be for the wedding weekend."

"So someone who lives 200 miles away, and a child. You know what, Swan? I think we've got this."

"Oh?"

"No offense Swan, but the man you procreated with is not the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"He's not an idiot, Killian. He's just…"

"Self-absorbed. Which works in our favor, in this instance." Emma smiled against her will. It wasn't an entirely erroneous description. "And Henry…"

"And Henry, what?" Emma's hackles raised automatically.

"He's ten. And as far as I can tell, he's never been exposed to the realities of an adult relationship, real or otherwise. Am I wrong?"

"There's David and Mary Margaret…"

"Ah yes," Killian agreed, taking a sip of coffee. "The golden couple. Such a picture perfect example of traditional marriage. Flowers. Coffee dates. Homemade dinners." There was an undercurrent of derision in his voice.

"There's nothing wrong with being traditional…" It fell to Emma to defend the honor of their employers.

"No, but it isn't really  _us,_ is it Swan?" Emma's skin prickled at the word  _us,_ and she turned to find Killian regarding her seriously, one eyebrow raised.

"I suppose not," she relented.

"Then allow me to plan a handful of couple-like interactions in the lead-up to the wedding, to sell the boy on the charade. How long until the big day?"

"Six weeks."

"Plenty of time."

"Why are you planning them?"

"Darling, you know how to take down flying monkeys." Emma snorted. "I know how to plan an evening out. So will you allow me the honour?"

"Fine." Emma threw a Twizzler at him.

"And you'll have the enviable task of delivering the stupendous news of our fledgling courtship to the lad!"

"Do you ever talk like a normal person?"

"And what fun would that be?" Emma threw another Twizzler at him, but this one he caught in his mouth. He grinned at her through a mouthful of red licorice.

* * *

A few hours later, when their entire store of high-caloric snack food was exhausted and there was still no sign of their quarry, it was time to face facts. Gerry Whale had probably skipped town, with or without his brother's help.

"I do hope you'll be paying for our dates, Swan, because I fear my meal ticket has probably hopped a bus to Canada."

The both continued to stare at Victor Whale's house, which looked much creepier in the moonlight than it had previously, a dejected air filling the car.

"So what is it that you want?" Emma broke the silence.

"I'm sorry?" Killian shook himself from his focus on the house. "What are we talking about?"

"You're right. You are doing me a favor. I recognize that. Which means that you are entitled to one in return."

"I didn't agree to your ridiculous plan because I wanted a favor from you, Swan."

"No, you agreed because Neal annoys you."

"Precisely," he arched his back against the seat and stretched out his spine, like a cat.

"And I appreciate that. But I need to be able to count on more than your dislike of Neal to ensure this stupid plan's success."

"When you had group projects at school, you were always the control freak, weren't you Swan?" Emma just rolled her eyes. "Dammit Swan. I agreed to help you. I gave you my word that I would. It shouldn't matter why. So long as you trust me to be as good as my word."

The silence in the short space between them was suffocating.

"Ah. So that's it then, isn't it? You don't trust me." Killian swallowed back a stab of hurt, but his voice was still strained. "You'll let me back you up against a bail jumper with a gun, but you still think I'd let you down at the earliest opportunity where my professional reputation wasn't at stake." It wasn't a question.

Emma had hurt his feelings. She could see that. She tried to form an apology, but she wasn't sure what she had to apologize for. Killian knew better than anybody what people were capable of doing to each other. That people needed to protect themselves.

"Fine," Killian barked. Emma started at his tone, and he made sure to soften his words. "If it makes you feel better, we'll strike a bargain. I'll jump through all the hoops required to make your little façade fly. I'll be the best damn wedding date you've ever had. I'll look the part. I'll act the part. I will Electric Slide with the best of them."

"Please don't Electric Slide." Emma interrupted.

"Consider the Electric Slide nixed from our deal." Killian amended, one corner of his lip curving up against his will. "Everyone will unanimously agree that you won the break-up. And in return for my being such a good sport, you are going to…" Emma wasn't sure if he was pausing for dramatic emphasis or because he was still grappling for something to bargain for, but before she could punch him, he let loose a shaky breath and delivered his terms.

"You're going to help me find someone."

"And why would you need my help with that? You're the best skip tracer in Boston."

"And I thank you for acknowledging me as such, Swan." Killian gave her a mocking bow of gratitude, and she couldn't resist any longer, punching him square in the shoulder. Killian looked unabashed, but began to rub his shoulder anyway.

"Sometimes, another set of eyes can be helpful. Preferable, even," he continued.

"And who are we finding?"

"All in good time, darling. Do you accept my terms? Or do you not?"

"I accept." She brokered a hand.

"Excellent." He gave a wide smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He went to grasp her hand, and stopped himself. "I feel like we should make this more official. Should we spit shake on it?"

"Is that how they settle things in County Cork? Because you and I are not swapping saliva."

"Another one of your rules, Swan?" The look he gave her was positively sinful.

Killian Jones was an attractive man. So much Emma could acknowledge. She wasn't blind. And that was part of the reason why she'd chosen him as her accomplice, after all, his ability to fill out a suit and look good on her arm. The unfortunate part was that he was well-aware of it, and he knew how to use it to his advantage. When he turned on the charm in such tight quarters, it made Emma feel a little like Little Red Riding Hood being stared down by her hungry wolf.

"Perhaps. No spitting. A proper gentleman's handshake."

"I'm always a gentleman, Swan."

"Prove it."

They shook on it. A proper gentleman's handshake.


	3. Chapter 3

When Emma was growing up, she'd been to eight elementary schools in five years. Each one had been virtually indistinguishable from the last. The same red-brick facades. The same group of well-off local kids who never gave her the time of the day. The same one teacher who always tried to make it their mission to "save" the lowly orphan from her certain future as a drug addict or prostitute, with a condescending dose of extra attention. The same group of eager mothers lined up at the school gate by the final bell, who were never waiting for her.

Now, she was one of those mothers. But even now, she still didn't fit. These women were all in their thirties, at least. They wore brand name exercise-wear, or skirt suits, or Mom jeans. They clutched Starbucks to-go cups in one hand, and keys to their BMWs in the other. They were all married, or divorced with great alimony.

They hadn't spent their morning chasing a bail jumper fifteen blocks down Boylston Street. They hadn't had a garbage can thrown at them, and almost been ran down by a Jeep. They hadn't tased anyone in an alley, cuffed them, and had to call their fake boyfriend to help them carry them back to the car. They hadn't found an errant piece of orange peel in their hair just now.

If they had, Emma wouldn't have been half so petrified of them.

* * *

Emma finally caught sight of Henry amongst the throng of departing students, hair flattened carefully to the side in the way he liked, the scarf Mary Margaret had knitted for him last Christmas wound loosely around his neck, satchel banging awkwardly against his hip. His face lit up when he spotted her there, waiting, and Emma felt her insecurities slide away. She'd made a lot of mistakes in her life. More than most. But Henry was the one thing she got right.

"I thought Mary Margaret was picking me up today?" He asked, after they'd disentangled themselves from their hug. It wouldn't be long until he wouldn't be caught dead hugging his mother in public. Emma was getting in as many as she could in the meantime. "It's Tuesday, right?"

"Change of plans, kid. I thought we'd go for ice cream." Emma smiled, her tone casual, but her boy had always been a clever one. He looked up sharply.

"Did someone die?" He asked, his little brown eyes filling with concern. Emma swore under her breath and crouched down so Henry could see the truth in her eyes.

"No one is dead. I promise you."

"So what's with the ice cream?" He looked unconvinced.

"I…" Emma considered feigning ignorance, but that clearly wasn't going to fly. "I have something to tell you, and I'm trying to butter you up first." His look of concern did not go away.

"Bad news?"

"It's not bad. It's just… different."

"Different!?" There was a tone of mania to the concern now. Great.

They'd reached Emma's VW Beetle now, and she opened the door for him to climb in.

"Get in kid. The sooner I down two sundaes, the sooner I'll tell you." He continued to stand resolutely on the sidewalk, arms crossed.

"Different!?" he repeated.

"You're killing me here, kid." Emma knelt down in front of him. "I promise, nothing is changing without your express permission, okay?"

"Pinky swear?" His eyes were as big as saucers, and Emma felt her heart constrict. She reached out her hand to envelop his little finger with her own.

"Pinky swear." She agreed, squeezing his finger for a long moment. Apparently satisfied, Henry climbed into his seat, and Emma closed the door behind him, letting out a long sigh. This was going to suck.

* * *

Emma made it through half of her sundae before the longing looks Henry was shooting at her over his cinnamon cocoa became too much.

"Fine, fine, I yield!" She declared, throwing her spoon down on the table with a clatter. "I'll tell you everything, just stop with the doe eyes!" Henry's expression quickly morphed to one of triumph, but when he saw his mother's lips form into a straight line, a little bit of fear crept back into the edges of his eyes.

Emma ripped off the Band-Aid.

"How would you feel if I started dating?"

Henry wasn't expecting the Band-Aid approach. He didn't say anything. He just sat there, mouth slightly open, brain in apparent meltdown. Five Seconds. Fifteen Seconds.

"Henry?" Emma waved his cocoa in front of his face, apprehension sneaking into her voice. He seemed to snap out of it, his eyes connecting with hers.

"Did someone ask you out?" His face still gave nothing away.

"I…err..." She hadn't really had time to rehearse the official story, so she kept close enough to the truth as possible. Isn't that what Killian suggested? Mix the lies and truth. "I kind of asked him out." And then realizing how that sounded, she hastened to add, "But if you aren't cool with it, I won't. It's 100% up to you."

"You asked someone out?" Apparently this would take baby steps.

"Yeah." Emma scanned his eyes for a flicker of…  _anything_ , but the kid was a steel trap. "Is that, okay?"

"Do I know him?" Emma had never had a father to give her the Spanish Inquisition about her dates growing up, but she imagined it would be a lot like this.

"Uhh… yeah." The look Henry gave her was expectant, and oddly reminiscent of Mary Margaret waiting on the results from a job. "It's Killian. From work," Emma mumbled, looking back down at her hands.

"Killian?" the question wasn't delivered with an air of derision, which Emma appreciated. Just a tone of surprise.

"Yeah." Her eyes flickered back up to his, and she felt trapped under their weight.

"You like him?" The question was awfully earnest, and Emma caught something in his expression she hadn't thought she would see.  _Hope._ This was not good.

"Yeah. At least, I think I do." She stared back down at her hands. "That's kind of what dating is for. To see if you like the person."

"And he said yes?"

"He did."

"Mom, this is great!" Emma looked up to see her son's eyes shining brightly.

"Is it?" Emma had expected opposition, or apprehension, or indifference. She hadn't expected excitement. This was not good at all.

"Of course it is! You never like anyone!" She thought about arguing that, but there was a ring of truth to it.

Emma had tried dating a few times since Henry was born, but the dates usually turned out to be unmitigated disasters with absolute creeps, or one-night things that she usually regretted later more often than not. Few of them had made it past the first date, and absolutely none of them had ever met Henry.

"So you're saying you're okay with it?" Henry reached across the table to take Emma's hand in his own. She remembered when his fingers couldn't even wrap around her thumb. And now here he was, half way to being a man. This knowledge stabbed at her in the most uncomfortable way.

"If you like him, then I'm okay with it." He smiled. Emma smiled back, her heart thumping strangely in her chest.

This was a big moment. She felt this was a big moment. And she was lying to him. She was lying to her favourite person in the world. She felt the sting of tears forming in her eyes and rushed to blink them away. When she looked back up at him, Henry had dialled down on the excitement a notch, returning to his cocoa. Emma reached for her spoon to continue with her long-forgotten sundae, but was interrupted by her son looking up suddenly from his drink. There was a puff of whipped cream on his nose, and Emma resisted the urge to attack him with a napkin.

"There is one thing," he was going for stern, but the whipped cream rendered him adorably unthreatening. "If he breaks your heart, me and Uncle David are going to have to kill him." Henry shrugged, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Them's the breaks."

* * *

It was past ten, and Henry was long in bed when her phone buzzed on her night stand. A text.

**Did the little lad give his blessing? KJ**

Emma crawled into the center of her bed, and flopped down onto her back before she sought to reply.

**He did. Thunderbirds are go. ES**

Emma expected a sarcastic text in return, one that perhaps remonstrated her use of outdated cultural references, so was caught off-guard when her phone started vibrating in her hand.

"Hello?"

"Are you okay, Swan?" His accent was thicker than normal, as it usually was at the end of the day, but there was no mistaking the concern.

"Hi. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" There was a beat.

"Swan."

Just that one word. That's all it took for the dam to break. Tears welled in Emma's eyes, and she felt them begin to spill down her cheeks. She crept off her bed and crawled into her closet, sliding shut the door behind her, phone still in hand.

"How did you know?" she hated the way her voice sounded, crackling at all the wrong moments.

"I know you well enough. For my part, I'm sorry you had to do that."

"It was my idea." Her nose blocked up, making her voice nasally and weird. She was a hot mess.

"And I let you run with it. I am as culpable as you are."

"I really hated lying to him," she whispered.

"I know."

"He's gonna hate me when he finds out." Sobs erupted from her throat before she could stop them.

"Hey, hey, hey. It's alright. It's okay." His words were soothing, but the sobs didn't abate, Emma's whole body wracked with them. "He won't hate you. He'll never hate you. I promised you he wouldn't get hurt, and I meant it, Emma."

"You…" Emma waited out another convulsion before she continued. "You called me… Emma."

"Aye, I did at that. So you know I'm serious. I won't let anything happen to the boy. It's doubtful he will ever find out, but if he does, he will not hate you, okay?"

"I'm such a bad mother." A new wave of sobs hit her, and she had to strain to hear Killian's words over the sounds of her own distress.

"You're a great mother, Emma. A great mother. You get crazy ideas at times, but you love him. And he knows that, okay?" He took a shaky breath. "You and I were never that lucky."

It felt like a confession, whispered in the dark for no one else to hear. Something intimate. Something Emma didn't deserve. It was enough to get Emma's breathing under control.

"You've never told me that before." Emma's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, as if the secret was a flickering candle between them, and any sudden movements would extinguish it forever. There was silence on the other end of the line. Just the sound of Killian's rhythmic breathing.

"Aye." He said at last.

"Do you regret it?" She whispered. "Telling me, I mean." He seemed to consider this for a long moment.

"No orphan should be left to feel alone, Swan. So no, I don't regret it." Another pause. "I beg you not to tell Mary Margaret, though. She treats me like a stray puppy half of the time already."

"That's what she does." Emma agreed, the beginnings of a smile tracing her lips.

"And god love her for it, but there are only so many hand-knitted scarves a man needs before it is bordering on the absurd." The smile was full-blown now, Emma imagining Killian drowning in a pile of Mary Margaret's signature gifts.

"Thank you, Killian."

"What are fake boyfriends for, Swan?" She could practically hear his wink across the phone line.

"I'm serious."

"As am I. The lad will be fine. Everything will be fine."

"You really think so?" Emma hated the neediness that crept into her voice.

"I've seen you take down flying monkeys and men brandishing dustbins. You've got this, darling."

Emma prided herself on being independent. Autonomous. Self-reliant. But she couldn't deny that something in her traitorous chest flared with pleasure at the knowledge that Killian Jones believed in her. Which was stupid.

"I'm not the hugging type, but I kind of want to hug you right now."

"Ah, you see? We make a splendid pair already!"

"Yeah, yeah. I don't -" Emma's attempt at returning the conversation to more solid ground was cut off by a yawn.

"You should sleep." Killian advised softly. Emma yawned again.

"Apparently I should." She agreed.

"Sleep well, Emma."

"You too, Killian."

Emma ended the call, somewhat surprised to find herself still cocooned in her closet amongst her winter jackets and boots. In the dark. Alone.

Killian wasn't actually there. He'd never been there. But for a while there, it had sure felt like it. Now the space felt oddly empty, with only the ghost of Killian's reassuring words left reverberating in Emma's ears. She buried her face into a particularly fluffy jacket and muffled an exasperated cry.

_What the hell was she doing?_


	4. Chapter 4

Emma was not freaking out. She didn't freak out. She was a carefully controlled person, who had been accused of being an ice queen more times than she could count. She was not standing at the threshold of her walk-in closet, despairing her complete and utter lack of date clothes. Especially not for a fake date with Killian Jones, of all people.

That didn't exactly help her with her complete dearth of outing-appropriate clothing, however. Emma wasn't exactly the frilly, princess type, but she'd bought her fair share of little black dresses and the like over the years. The problem was that she usually reserved these dresses for her  _Honeytraps_. That's what Killian had dubbed them, and they were something of a specialty of hers. Surprisingly few bail jumpers turned down drinks invitations from mysterious, leggy blondes. Even the married ones. Perhaps especially the married ones. Of course, the evenings usually ended with some kind of altercation. A surprising number of bail jumpers didn't take the news that their date was a bailbondswoman come to apprehend them too well. The little black dresses never did particularly well out of those evenings. The last one had come out of it with a tear and a nasty bloodstain, the guy having broken his nose falling over a fire hydrant in the middle of his hasty getaway.

Usually, in times of fashion crisis, Mary Margaret's wardrobe was the first port of call, even if her style was perhaps a little too  _fussy headmistress_  for Emma's taste. But there was no way Emma was asking for her help with this. She did the books, she  _knew_ it wasn't for a job. And if it wasn't for a job, that necessitated far too many questions for Emma's liking. She would make do. Like always.

"You should wear the red one," a voice called from the doorway. Emma whipped around to see Henry peeking around door frame, wearing a sheepish grin.

"I thought you were doing your math homework?" Emma's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"All done," he chirped back, studiously avoiding his mother's gaze.

"Oh really?" Emma challenged, stepping towards him. "You know I can tell when someone is lying, right?" She knelt down until they were face to face. Henry didn't last even a second under her scrutiny.

"C'mon please let me help! Please? I'll finish my homework when Ruby is here, I promise!" Emma scratched her chin, apparently thinking. "Please?" It was so much fun to torture the kid sometimes.

"Okay," said Emma, finally. "But you  _will_ finish it. I'm gonna check when I get back, okay?" Henry nodded his head furiously, and Emma couldn't resist a kiss to the top of his head before she got back to her feet.

"So the red one, you think?"

* * *

The knock at the apartment door came at precisely 7 o'clock. Points for punctuality. Ruby met Emma's eyes over Henry's shoulder, one perfectly tinted eyebrow raised to let her know she was impressed. Emma shook her head, and went to let him in. With a last furtive glance in the mirror by the coat rack, and a last tug at her hem, Emma swung open the door.

_Holy mother of god._

Killian Jones was leaning back against the hallway opposite her door, wearing a languid smile on his lips. He was also wearing sinfully tight leather trousers, a waistcoat over a dark blue button-up and sex hair. Frankly, it was absurd how attractive he was. The words of welcome on Emma's lips died away, as she couldn't help but take in the view. His grin grew more pronounced as his eyes travelled the length of her in reciprocation. Emma felt her exposed skin prickle, wishing she'd gone for a dress with a little more coverage.

"Very nice, Swan," was his eventual verdict, as he pushed himself off the wall and presented his left hand from behind his back with a flourish. He was holding a single red rose between his fingers. It was a ridiculous enough gesture to break Emma from her trance.

"Taking tips from the David Nolan School of Romantic Gestures?" Emma teased, taking the proffered rose with a smile.

"Aye," said Killian, scratching behind one ear. "Sometimes there's nothing wrong with traditional." He winked, but froze at the same time that Emma felt a presence behind her. She whirled around to see Henry standing just behind her, a stern expression on his face.

"You alright kid?" She asked, feeling a little like she'd just been caught making out in front of her father.

"I wanted to talk to Killian." It wasn't a question. Emma looked back at Killian in alarm, and to his credit, he looked just as unnerved, but nodded his assent, sliding around Emma to greet Henry properly.

"Hi lad," he said, bending down a little. "I was thinking maybe you and I should have some words. Good form and all that." Killian gave Henry his most winning smile, but Henry's expression remained unimpressed. Emma just rolled her eyes at all of the male posturing, and went to retrieve her handbag from the dining room table. Ruby was still sitting there, next to Henry's abandoned homework, a sly smile on her lips.

"Emma, if you feel like you need to stay out past your bedtime with this one, I am happy to watch Henry all night," Ruby offered, her own gaze busy sliding down the contours of Killian's chest. "All I ask is for a little detail." Emma rolled her eyes, picking up her bag and rifling through it to make sure all the necessities were intact.

"I'll be back by midnight, before the Bug turns into a pumpkin," Emma assured her.

"Such a pity," Ruby sighed.

"Make sure Henry finishes his homework. And is in bed by 8:30. He can read until 9, but no later than that." Emma looked down at her hands, to find she was still holding the rose. "And put this in water?" she asked, handing it off.

"You got it, boss," Ruby saluted, flower in hand. "And please have fun for me, won't you?" Emma just smiled.

"Thanks for doing this Ruby. I'll see you at 12."

"Call me if you change your mind!" Ruby called after her.

Henry and Killian were engaged in a tense stare-down when Emma approached them again.

"Everything alright here, gentlemen?" They both snapped out of it, looking a little embarrassed. She turned to Henry.

"So what do you think? Is this one okay?" She asked, gesturing to her would-be date, who was currently turning on the puppy dog eyes. Henry screwed up his face in deep thought, now his turn to torture her.

"I think…" he knew how to ratchet up the tension like a pro. "I think he'll do." Killian pretended to be offended by this assault on his character, but Emma whacked him on the arm, and bent down to give Henry a hug.

"Thanks for being so cool about this, kid." She whispered into his neck. "I love you." He hugged her back tightly.

"Love you too, Mom."

"And behave for Ruby, okay?" she warned, breaking their embrace. "No Nerf Guns inside, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, his eyes wandering in that way that Emma knew meant they were going to break them out as soon as she had left. But you couldn't win 'em all.

"Good night, Henry."

"Good night Mom. Good night, Killian."

And then the door closed behind them, and they were alone at last.

"You alright, love?" Killian asked at once, checking her face for signs of distress. Emma just shook her head and dragged him to the nearest stairwell.

As soon as the door swung shut, Emma leaned her forehead against it, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

"I will be." She tried to concentrate on keeping her breathing even.

"He's a great kid. A little scary, though."

"What did he say to you?" She asked, leaning her head sideways to look at him.

"A gentleman never tells." Emma pushed herself off the wall, and gave him a look. Killian took about five seconds to break under the weight of her stare.

"He asked me what my intentions were, with you." That was precious.

"And what did you say?" Emma felt herself smiling in spite of herself.

"I said my intentions were to feed you dinner!" Emma snorted. Killian looked apologetic. "Yeah, he didn't like that either. He said that if I broke your heart, Uncle David knows people in Southie who could make me disappear." Emma couldn't help it, she burst out laughing, all of that awful tension in her gut spilling out. Killian joined in soon after. They were a couple of maniacs, laughing in a stairwell.

"You're right," Emma said, regaining her composure. "That is a little scary."

* * *

The place Killian had picked for their fake dating debut was a new seafood place in Charlestown, down by the marina. As they were being seated, Emma couldn't help but find herself a little amazed.

"This is a little…" She trailed off, giving the place the onceover. Flattering lighting. Cloth napkins. More than one set of cutlery in front of her, polished to a high sheen. "Not what I was expecting," she finished lamely.

"Thought I was going to take you to a dive bar, Swan? Maybe stop for drive-thru on the way?" She shrugged, as if to say,  _well kinda._ Killian just smiled in response, the edges of his eyes crinkling. It was a good look for him.

"I'm not sure if you know this, love, but not every meal need contain a nearly lethal dose of animal fats and red dye number 40." Emma just rolled her eyes. "Likewise, not every evening in my company need end with you tackling someone to the ground, and handcuffing them." Killian sat up a little straighter. "Although…" Killian smirked, and did something borderline illegal with his tongue. "Given the right circumstances, that could be fun too."

Emma felt her cheeks flush, despite her best efforts to keep her face neutral, and raised her glass to take a long, cooling sip of water.

"You do realise that this is a fake first date, right?" she asked, fighting to maintain a professional distance.

"Aye, but that doesn't mean it has to be a mediocre, does it?" Killian winked, leaning back on his chair. "

Mercifully, Emma was saved from any more charm attacks by the prompt arrival of a waiter with an honest-to-goodness cummerbund to take their drink orders. By the time the man had finished cycling through his spiel on the establishment's exhaustive list of recommended wines, and complimented them both on their excellent choices, Killian was back on message. He waited until the waiter was out of earshot before speaking.

"Now that our fake first date is off to a flying start, what say you to assisting me with my side of our little bargain?" He asked breezily, eyes not lifting from his menu. It was almost jarring, the sudden switch from pleasure to business, but Emma, eager to put herself on a more firm footing, grasped at it with both hands.

"So who are we finding?" Killian raised an eyebrow at Emma's overeager tone.

"A charming fellow by the name of August W. Booth."

"The guy's got three initials and  _you_ can't find him?" Emma's look was incredulous.

"You're right. That would ordinarily be, what do you Americans call it? "A piece of cake?"" Emma rolled her eyes. "The thing is, there is no August W. Booth. He doesn't exist. The DMV haven't heard of him. Nor has there ever been a birth certificate issued with that name. It's a pseudonym. The guy writes children's books. And to my dismay, apparently self-published. There's no record of an August W. Booth on any financials, anywhere. The guy is a ghost."

"And what are you doing chasing the whereabouts of a children's book author, ghost or not?"

"Honestly?" Emma raised one eyebrow, in the universally recognised signal for  _what do you think?_

"I think…" Killian hesitated. "I think he's been watching me."

"For real?" Emma regretted it as soon as she said it, she could already see Killian shrinking into himself, and she hastened to fix it. "I mean, is he stalking you, or does he work for someone, or does he just have a thing for attractive Irish guys?"

"You think I'm attractive?" The grin was back, larger than life, and Emma facepalmed. Killian chuckled, running a hand through his already perfectly-mussed hair.

"Shut up." Emma hid herself behind her menu, and Killian just laughed harder. She was rescued from her mortification soon after by a helpful member of the waitstaff, who took great delight in reciting the day's specials, and answering all of Emma's deliberately inane questions. When he finally left, after complimenting them on their excellent selections, Killian nudged Emma's foot under the table.

"I had no idea you were so fascinated by the use of tomato in clam chowder, love," Killian smirked. Emma kicked his foot, and grinned a little at his slight wince of pain. "I see you are not ready to admit to exactly how attractive you find me," Killian wheezed, through a burst of pain. Emma snorted. "So I'll spare the lady's sensibilities" Killian bowed with dramatic flourish, "and digress." Emma nodded gratefully.

"Tell me about this Booth guy."

"Alright," Killian scratched behind one ear. "But don't say I didn't warn you. It's… odd. I first noticed him about a month ago. He was sitting in the diner I go for breakfast most mornings. Not so weird. It's Allston, after all. It would be weird if there  _wasn't_ a hipster writer type hanging around." He looked up to make sure Emma was listening, and she gave him a  _go on_ motion. "I saw him every day that week, sometimes in the diner, sometimes outside, next to a typically retro looking motorbike. And before you ask, I ran the plates. The bike is a rental. I talked to the agency he rented from, and it turns out they are  _woefully_ bad at keeping records. By which I mean to say, he paid them an extortionate sum of money to keep his name off the books."

"That's suspicious."

"I agree, love. So in the second week, I start going to the Starbucks around the corner from my apartment instead. And every morning, he's there. Inside or out near the bike. That's creepy, I think. But then again, maybe the guy just likes Pumpkin Spice Lattes? So the next week, I walk three blocks over and go to the coffee shop there. Guess who shows up? Same character."

"Definitely suspicious."

"So the next morning, I sit down across the table from Mr August W. Booth and we have ourselves a little chat. I get his name, or his moniker, anyway, his profession and a copy of his latest book. I ask him if he's following me, and he doesn't answer me. He doesn't seem intimidated by the questions, or flustered, and he doesn't try to deny anything. If anything, he just seems kind of amused."

"And then what?"

"And then I got a call from you, darling, telling me to come and help you carry a 200 pound unconscious man out of an alley." Killian shrugged. "Just a regular morning in the big city."

"Have you seen him since?"

"Just once, outside The Rabbit Hole on Friday. But he took off on that damn motorcycle of his before I could get a hold of him."

"Huh."

"Aye." Killian leaned back finally, breathing an audible sigh. "So what say you, Swan? Do you take the case?"

Emma leant across to grasp Killian's hand in hers for a firm handshake. A gentleman's handshake.

"I'm absolutely in."


	5. Chapter 5

Something was off with Mary Margaret.

From the second Emma had stepped into the office, ponytail still askew from her latest tangle with an errant skip, this one ending in a literal tangle at the bottom of a mall escalator, something hadn't been quite right.

Her greeting smile was just a little too bright. The rhythmic tap of her fingertips to her keyboard was just a little too jaunty. The loop in her signature as she signed off on Emma's check was just a little too dramatic.

Something was up. And it was either something very right, or very, very wrong.

"Mary Margaret?" She raised her face from her computer screen to look up at Emma, at once arranging her expression to be as open and accommodating as possible. Considering that open and accommodating were Mary Margaret's default settings, the end result was a hideous caricature of the woman she knew.

Fuck.

She knew.

Emma's stomach dropped. Why hadn't she anticipated this? Her social circle wasn't that big. Henry knew. And Ruby knew. Oh god.  _Ruby._

"Who told you? Ruby? It was Ruby, wasn't it? Son of a bitch!"

"Told me? Told me what?" Mary Margaret was good at a great many things. Accountancy. Knitting. Archery, oddly enough. Grossing people out with constant public displays of affection with her husband. Taking in stray people and making them feel loved. What she really, really sucked at, though, was lying.

"Don't even try with me," Emma warned.

"I really have no idea what you-" she trailed off when she saw the sharp look in Emma's eye. "Ruby might've mentioned-" she mumbled.

"I fucking  _knew_  it!" Emma shot out of her chair, and started pacing the waiting room. "I  _knew_  asking a friend of yours would backfire, I _knew_  it. But Henry really loves her, and I didn't have anyone else to ask really, except you, and I couldn't tell  _you_  and-"

"Hey, Emma… Emma, calm down." Mary Margaret stood up and grasped Emma by the shoulders, and pulled her back into her seat. "Everything is fine, okay?"

"No… no, it's a nightmare." Emma buried her head in her hands. "A complete fucking nightmare."

"But Ruby said… it went really well?" Mary Margaret looked suddenly uncertain. It took Emma a second to figure out what she was talking about. Oh, right. The date. The fake date. The fake date that went really well. The one that had, actually gone… really well. But Emma wasn't going to focus on that. Not when her life was flashing before her eyes.

"What? No, it was fine. That's not… I have to make a call." She left Mary Margaret sitting at her desk, mouth agape, and barricaded herself in the side office. It was the one she and Killian shared when they needed to do computer research, which was depressingly often.

Sitting down at Killian's desk, she rifled through each drawer, finally hitting pay dirt in the bottom drawer. Killian's very own stash of Captain Morgan, still unopened, for emergencies. This  _absolutely_ counted. Cracking the cap, Emma took a long swig from the bottle before she found the courage to press the speed-dial.

"Jones." He sounded out of breath.

"She knows!"

"Swan?"

"She knows!" She could hear the hysteria pushing her voice to previously unknown octaves, but she couldn't quite control it.

"Swan! Slow down, take a breath and start again. This time, using full sentences and names."

Emma took a second. Full sentences. Names. She could do that. She took another swig from the bottle.

"Mary Margaret knows about the date. Ruby told her."

There was silence at first, then distant cursing. And then came the sound of boots crunching on gravel, and Killian's labored breathing.

"What are you doing?" Emma couldn't help the curiosity peeking through her panic.

"Currently? Chasing Gerry Whale through his brother's back garden."

"Oh."

Her timing had always been terrible.

"Where are you?"

"In the office." Suddenly there was a mess of commotion over the line. Distant crashes, thumps, and cursing from two distinct voices. Emma waited.

"Still there, Swan?" Killian asked, a minute later, breath ragged.

"Yep."

"I've got Gerry Whale. I'll be there in an hour, okay? Don't freak out." The connection ended, and Emma replaced the phone on the desk, next to the bottle of rum.

Don't freak out. Sure.

* * *

True to his word, not forty five minutes later, there came a rap at the door, followed by a low murmur of voices, which ceased when Killian gently pried opened the door and stuck his head around to assess the situation.

"May I come in?" he asked, gently. Emma nodded, and he slipped inside, closing the door firmly shut behind him. Fresh from his successful take-down of Gerry Whale, he looked a sight. His dark grey button-down, stained with sweat, was missing a front pocket, and there was a tear in the left sleeve. There was even a bit of greenery still stuck in his hair, which was looking even more disheveled than usual. And whilst Emma was assessing him, he was taking in the three-quarters full bottle of rum sitting on his desk, and Emma's stricken expression.

"Well, you know what they say, love, it's 5 o' clock somewhere!" He plastered on a grin, ambling forward.

"Don't." Emma's voice faltered. The grin quickly vanished from his face, and he shifted across to sit on the edge of his desk, his feet leaning on Emma's chair to keep her in place.

"Mary Margaret is worried about you."

"Why didn't I see this coming?" Emma asked, mostly to herself. Killian sighed, and reached over to grab the bottle. Instead of confiscating it, as Emma suspected he would, he unscrewed the cap and took a deep swig himself.

"Aye," he said, brushing the remaining rum from his lips with his fingers. "Our little ruse has become somewhat more complicated."

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea it would get back to them. If you want to just forget the whole thing, I understand…" Emma trailed off.

" _That's_  why you're in here having a panic attack and drinking all of  _my_ rum?" Killian seemed surprised. "You're worried about how this affects  _me_?"

"Of course I am! This isn't just about me anymore. David and Mary Margaret are  _your_  employers too,  _your_  friends. Lying to them was never part of the deal."

"So?"

"So?!" Emma couldn't understand how he was being so calm about this. "Aren't you a little worried about how they are going to react? What effect it will have on working together? What they'll do if they find out the truth? What they'll think-" Killian reached across to grab one wrist, stopping Emma in the middle of her tirade, casting a warning glance at the door, behind which Mary Margaret was surely lurking. It had the desired effect. Emma bit her lip to prevent more words spilling out.

"Swan, allow me to be clear." He turned his blue eyes to hers. "When I agreed to this, I was hung-over." The crinkles around his eyes were back, and in spite of herself, Emma felt herself smiling with the stupid accuracy of his words. "And my pride was bruised. Much like yours had been." He began to rub small circles into the wrist he was holding, and she felt herself relax slightly. "I felt an odd sense of kinship with you in that moment, and so I made a decision. It was a stupid one, aye, but I've done far worse in my life than pretend to date a beautiful woman for a few weeks." He shrugged. "In fact, on the scale of Killian Jones's all-time stupidest ideas, it probably doesn't even break the top fifty."

"That was a very nice little speech." Emma's mind was still stuck on  _beautiful._

"Thank you." Killian grinned, tipping an imaginary cap. Emma shook herself out of the spell of his blue, blue eyes.

"And Mary Margaret and David won't find any of this concerning? Just because they are the shining example of mixing business and pleasure, doesn't mean they'll be thrilled to find their employees…" Emma had trouble finding the right words.

"Getting off behind their backs?" Killian supplied helpfully.

"We're not-" Emma stopped when she saw Killian's sly grin. He almost caught her. She hurried to amend her words. "Will they really be okay with us dating?"

"You do realize that you are talking about a couple that I regularly catch in some sort of compromising position in the office, at least once a week, right? It would be rather hypocritical of them to enact a double standard in their employees." That was true. But that wasn't what Emma was worried about. Killian seemed to know that. "If what I saw in the waiting room just now is an indication, underneath the concern about your little… disappearing act…" he raised an accusing eyebrow at that, "Mary Margaret seemed kind of… excited about it?" Emma was afraid of that. "Oh, you know what she's like." Killian shrugged. "She's all about happy endings and love in unexpected places." Killian punctuated each word with an appropriate note of sarcasm. "She eats that stuff for breakfast. It's Dave I'm more worried about."

"David, really?" He was by far the more casual of the two.

"Don't pretend you don't know he's appointed himself as your fatherly protector." Emma rolled her eyes, though it was true. "I'll wager he won't be too pleased about a man with my…  _reputation…_ romancing his surrogate daughter." Killian had a point. David was the only person who knew the full extent of Emma's messy history with Neal, and the first time the two men had been in a room together, it had come to blows. David certainly took his assumed responsibilities towards Emma seriously.

"I see what you mean." Emma gritted her teeth.

"I can handle David, love. That isn't my concern. I just don't want to be left alone, holding up one half of a lie. Because then David really will knock my block off. Understand?"

"Got it."

"It's just for a couple of weeks. Then everything can go back to normal."

"Will it though?" Emma had seen the spark in Mary Margaret's eyes. It wasn't good.

"Sure," he shrugged. "We'll invent some codswallop excuse about deciding we're better off friends. Everyone will be wary for a couple of weeks, and then they'll forget that it was ever any different."

"You're really fine with this?"

"Swan, exactly who are we hurting here? We're doing a couple of dinners and a weekend in Maine. I hardly think their lives, or mine, will be so adversely affected."

"Not interfering with your busy social life?" Killian elected to ignore that.

"And in return, you're helping me with my writer problem. The question is, can  _you_ lie to your friends?"

"I honestly don't think I have a choice." Emma shrugged. "I mean, I don't  _want_  to lie to them. When I first met Mary Margaret, I was living with a toddler in a motel that charged by the hour. David was a character witness at my custody hearing. I owe them both more than I could ever pay back, but…"

"But?"

"Mary Margaret has the world's worst poker face. I mean, you should have seen her when I walked in. It took her about a minute to completely come undone. If she knows, half of Greater Boston will know within the hour, and that includes…" The word  _Henry_ floated between them, unspoken. They shared a look.

"So we continue as before," Killian summarized.

"Yeah. Only now with a few more people to fool in between dates." Emma's voice was flat.

"Cheer up, love, my dates aren't  _that_  bad." He pulled Emma forward slightly by one wrist, which she was surprised to find he was still holding, and let his words take on a more intimate tone. "I know for a fact you had fun last night, despite all of your scruples telling you not to."

"It was a nice place," Emma answered diplomatically, her lip twitching with the effort to keep her expression level. Killian pretended to be affronted.

"Nice place?  _Nice place!?_ Champagne and oysters and  _very smooth moves_ and she says  _nice place!?"_ He raged at an imaginary public, who would surely take his side on the matter. "My very reputation as a dashing lothario is at stake here, Swan!" Emma couldn't contain her laughter anymore, and broke their contact to wipe the tears free from her eyes as she struggled to pull herself together. Killian was still regarding her with mock hurt, waiting for her to get her breath back. He puffed out his chest dramatically. "You just wait for what I have in store for date number two, and then we'll see who is so unimpressed." The tone was haughty, and sort of adorable.

"You've already got something in mind?" Emma was genuinely curious. Killian broke character to offer a single sly wink.

"Friday night good for you, Swan?" Emma nodded, reaching over to remove a stray leaf from his hair, twisting it between her fingers with an amused smile.

"Excellent," he said, leaning forward to brush his lips to Emma's cheek, grinning as she glared at him. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to go home and wash the remnants of Victor Whale's pretentious fucking herb garden off my skin." He stood up fully, offered Emma a hand, which she took, rising to her feet beside him.

"Thank you, Killian." Emma didn't release his hand until he saw she meant it.

"I know, I know, I'm a bloody marvel." He shrugged off both her gratitude and her hand. "Now go put Mary Margaret out of her misery. She's only been pacing outside that door for the last hour." He took a few steps towards the door, then seemed to reconsider before turning back around. "And don't touch my rum again."

With one last wink in her direction, Killian disappeared through the door, leaving it unlatched on his way out. Not even a closed door stood between Emma and her next lie. Taking a last pull of rum, and savoring the burn of it down her throat, Emma steeled herself for the next great hurdle.

Dealing with Mary Margaret's excitement.


	6. Chapter 6

Killian was right. August W. Booth didn't exist. He didn't show up on any database Emma had access to, nor any that her cop friend, Graham had access to, once she'd bought his favour with a box of bear claws. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

The only place August W. Booth's name appeared in print, was on the front cover of the book that Killian had brought over that morning.

* * *

He hadn't even waited for an invitation to be let in, he'd just winked at Emma's pink flannel pajamas (a gift from Henry) and breezed past her into the kitchen. By the time she'd recovered from the suddenness of it all and followed him back down the hall, he had already stolen half of the bacon off her plate, and was busy offering Henry suggestions on how to make his volcano for Science class a little more explosive.

"Hey," Emma slapped his hands away from her plate before he could take any more. "Bacon is sacred in this house." Henry nodded in solemn agreement, before swallowing a mouthful of his own.

"My apologies, milady," Killian bowed in an overly dramatic fashion, but it didn't stop him from taking a sip of coffee from her mug. Emma rolled her eyes and shoved him out of the way so she could take her seat at the table. He just stood there looking adorably forlorn until Emma took pity on him.

"Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink. There's more coffee in the pot." He grinned, and went to fix himself a cup.

"Are you here for a reason, or did you just want to eat me out of house and home?" Emma asked, pointing her fork at the stray Irishman, once he'd taken a place beside her at the table.

"Maybe I just wanted to see you?" His usual winning smile was less effective with a mouthful of stolen toast. Emma raised one eyebrow, and Killian's gaze flickered briefly towards Henry, who was busy stuffing his face with scrambled egg.  _All part of the ruse?_ He swallowed down the last of his toast.

"I'm going to Martha's Vineyard today to check out Jim Holt's uncle's summer home. I have reason to believe that his errant nephew might be holed up there."

"You don't want me to go with you?" Emma asked. "I mean, the guy is a personal trainer. You probably can't outrun him on your own."

"Questioning my stamina, Swan?" Emma almost choked on her coffee, and shot Killian a warning glare over the top of her mug.  _There's a child present._ He continued on, undeterred. "That won't be necessary. I'll admit, chasing fitness types is always a hassle, but I figure that with it being an island, I've something of an advantage. There's only so many exits. I also probably won't make it back in time for you to pick up the lad from school." He said, nodding at Henry.

"What did he do?" Henry interrupted, glancing between the two adults.

"Oh, he err…" Killian looked over at Emma in alarm.  _Solicitation_. Jim Holt had been picked up for solicitation. She gave a slight shake of her head, and Killian scrambled for a more palatable alternative. "Merely a wee bit of larceny," he answered smoothly. Henry still looked confused.

"He stole things. Expensive things." Emma explained.

"Oh." Henry returned his attention to his eggs, and Killian's shoulders slumped in relief.

"I was hoping however…" Killian reached across to his satchel he'd dropped on the table earlier, and pulled out a large book, with an old-fashioned leather-bound cover. "That you would have a look at this for me?"

"Is that…?" Emma lowered her voice, and Killian followed suit.

"Aye. August Booth's book. The one he gave me. I was hoping it could shed a little light on our dear Mr. Booth, and his intentions, but I'm afraid I couldn't find anything especially illuminating. I thought maybe fresh eyes would help?"

"Sure." She pulled it towards her, to get a better look. "I'm on the case." She glided her hands over the embossed title, and Killian regarded her for a few moments, before pushing his chair out and standing up from the table.

"Excellent! Well, I can see I have intruded," Emma gave him an arch look at that, "But if I leave now I should make the 10 o' clock ferry, so I should be going." He picked up his satchel, slung it over his shoulders, and made a show of checking all of its straps and pockets.

Before she could ask what the hold-up was, she received a kick under the table, from Henry.

"What?" she mouthed silently at her son, who fixed her with an exasperated look. He made a none-too-subtle jerk of his head towards the door.

"And apparently, I'm walking you out." Emma rose from the table, poking her tongue out at Henry before motioning for Killian to follow her to the door.

With another exaggerated bow, he did, until they were out of view of Henry.

"If my kid gets third degree burns attempting to make Elephant Toothpaste, that's on you." She whirled around to poke him in the chest. Instead of shrinking from her attack, as she expected, he took a step forward, until her hand was on his chest, and they were almost nose to nose.

"Vinegar and bicarbonate soda is so overdone, Swan. Don't you want him to stand out?" He was standing far too close, his blue eyes drawing her in, so she averted her gaze to the tiny scar on his right cheek. One day she'd ask him how he got it.

"After all, what's life without a little adventure, darling?" His breath brushed her cheek, and Emma felt herself flush with the proximity of him, and the underlying challenge. Her eyes flicked back to his. Definitely a challenge. And that's when she did something, really, really stupid.

She closed the minimal distance between them, and kissed him.

His lips were warm, salty from stolen bacon, and deceptively soft. At first, he didn't respond, and Emma stepped back ready to break the kiss, until she felt a hand twist in her hair, and Killian stepped forward, his lips chasing her own. She let herself be dragged back into his orbit, losing herself momentarily in the feel of him. And when she heard the tell-tale footsteps of approaching tiny feet on the floorboards, she used the hand that had somehow become entangled in his shirt, to break them apart.

It hadn't been a long kiss. A few seconds. No tongue. Practically chaste. But when she pulled back, Emma saw the visible effect it had had on Killian. His pupils were blown back, his irises a darker shade of blue, something unnameable flickering across his features as he looked at her, gaining his breath back. She was out of breath herself.

"Mom! We're going to be late." Henry's voice cut right through the tension. Emma and Killian took a sudden step away from each other. Henry peeked around the corner, to regard the two of them. "He hasn't gone yet?"

"Just a second, Henry." Emma's voice came out weird, wobbly. She tried to affix him with a half-way threatening glance over Killian's shoulder, but he seemed unperturbed.

"You guys are gross," Henry sighed, disappearing again.

Emma turned her attention back to Killian, who was now dragging his fingers across his lips in a slightly dazed way.

"That was…" he began.

"Convincing." Emma cut in. She avoided his gaze as she steered him towards the door. "And I have a kid who is late for school, and you have a ferry to catch." She unlocked the deadbolt and threw open the door.

"Aye," he replied, his voice steadier also. He wasn't looking at her either. "I'll see you tomorrow." He went to lean forward, rethought that, and with an awkward kind of salute, he disappeared through the open door.

Emma immediately closed the door behind him, leaning her forehead against the cool wood.

_Convincing?_

It was probably for the best Killian was headed out of town.

* * *

Twelve hours later, curled up on the couch watching Henry play at being a medieval knight on his Xbox, Emma found herself idly flicking through August Booth's book, not at all replaying the morning's events on a loop in her head, trying to figure out what exactly she had done.

A large part of her could comfort herself with facts. Killian was her fake boyfriend. She was trying to convince Henry of this fact. So she'd kissed him, knowing Henry would cotton on.

The smaller, and yet more niggling part of her told her that she hadn't cared what Henry could or could not glean from the situation.

She'd just… wanted to.

And yeah, that was a problem.

It wasn't that he wasn't attractive. He was  _plenty_ attractive. It wasn't that they worked together, although that came with its own hellish complications, Mary Margaret's overeager girl-talk still fresh in her mind. It wasn't that he liked to whore around, although that was the general understanding. It wasn't she hadn't felt anything in that kiss. She'd felt…  _something._ And by the look on his face when they'd broken apart, she hadn't been the only one.

It was that he kind of, sort of… got her?

It didn't escape Emma, the irony that two people who had been abandoned repeatedly, worked in a professional capacity returning wayward people to face up to their responsibilities. It probably hadn't been a coincidence.

But it was more than the tumultuous upbringings, the abandonments. Emma had long ago realized, the hard way, that two broken people together didn't make a whole. They just made for a hell of a lot of baggage.

It was more about… showing up. People, as a rule, didn't do that. Parents. Foster parents. Neal. Every subsequent guy.

Killian did.

Even when the situation called for tackling a notorious streaker running loose on Boston Common, or climbing the fire escape to cover the back of a fifth floor walk-up of a woman who had gambled her employees' entire pension plans away, he was always there, with a sardonic comment and a lazy grin, no matter what.

Which was the problem. No one sticks around forever. And the more you think they might, the more it hurts when they leave.

Which is why her and Killian Jones were never going to happen. Not for real.

* * *

A day of inquiries hadn't turned up anything yet on August, so Emma resisted the urge to call him. After that morning, distance was probably for the best. All was similarly quiet on the Killian front. The only update she'd gotten on the Holt case had come in the form of a single text message, at about 3pm.

**Did you know Jim Holt runs marathons? Motherfucker. KJ**

Emma shook off the image of Killian chasing down a man with superior cardiovascular fitness around and around Martha's Vineyard, to hilarious effect, to re-examine August Booth's book.

If it was truly self-published at a vanity press, as Killian had suspected, then the guy hadn't spared any expense. The cover was leather. The good stuff. The title,  _Once Upon A Time,_ was embossed in gold. The pages were heavy. Good quality.

This was a clue in of itself. That kind of workmanship was rare. Vanity presses were more in the  _let's exploit all your writerly ambitions for maximum profit_ line of work, than turning out stuff like this. Emma already had a contact who worked in a second-hand bookshop off Harvard Square who was trying to track down the publisher, but she hadn't heard back yet.

The book itself was just a collection of fairy tales, featuring all of the usual suspects. Snow White. Cinderella. Rumpelstiltskin. Even so, they weren't quite the stories she remembered from watching Disney movies growing up. Booth had subverted a lot of the original stories, adding new twists and arcs. But it was still… just fairy tales.

A part of Emma had hoped that the book had been part of a message to Killian. Why else had August given it to him? To prove he was an author?  _Please_. Even distressed hipsters from Allston didn't hand out free copies of their own books in coffee shops to hot guys they were stalking. Especially without leaving a number. Unless the point was the futility? Just to watch him chase his own tail chasing down a  _nom de plume_?

Actually, now Emma thought about it, that was maybe exactly why he'd given it to him.

A distraction. But to distract him from what?

Killian didn't have any outstanding skips. Nor Emma. They always got their man. There was a reason David kept them around, and it wasn't because he appreciated the witty banter or the food trash that lined the bottom of his truck after they borrowed it for stake outs.

"Mom?" Emma abandoned her theories, looking up to see Henry staring down at her sleepily, his game abandoned.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Time for bed?" She ruffled his hair.

"I almost got to Level 19! But I got killed by the dragon in the demon's lair."

"Oh. Well next time, 'kay?"

"Uh huh." Childish curiosity compelled him to see what Emma was holding. "Is that the book Killian gave you?" He traced his fingers over the cover.

Emma had never been much of a reader, growing up. She was much more interested in libraries as a source of refuge from shitty foster homes than as a source of stories. Henry was different. The kid liked books. Always had. And this one was more impressive than most.

"Uh… yeah. It's for a case. Sort of."

"Can I read it?" He was pulling major puppy dog eyes. Killian would have been proud.

"I don't know… it's not really mine to lend out, you know?"

"What if I promise not to take it outside the apartment? And I'll be really careful? Please?" Emma had always been a sucker for puppy dog eyes. And she'd already had a flick through. It was weird. But it was PG, more or less.

"Oh, what the hell," she said, handing it to him. "Knock yourself out. I hope you like fairy tales, kid."

Henry held it in his hands like it was something precious, shooting her a wide grin in thanks, and not for the first time, Emma wondered how someone like her managed to have a kid like Henry. Happy. Well-adjusted. Smart. Kind. Was there a part of her that was still like that, deep down? Something she'd passed on in the genes? Somehow she doubted it.

"No reading tonight though, okay? Your eyes are already practically dragging out of your skull. It's bed time, but make sure you brush your teeth first!" Henry just rolled his eyes, but he gave her a hug anyway, and scampered down the hallway to the bathroom.

Leaning back on the arm of the couch, Emma let out a large sigh. No more thought of kisses or hipsters on motorcycles or fairy tale princesses in distress tonight. That was the plan. She was going to queue something up on Netflix, and forget. And that worked for about ten minutes, until her cell phone buzzed on the coffee table.

**Good night, Swan. KJ**

And there it was.

Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, Killian Jones was thinking of her. And it was a problem. But it also wasn't.

' **Night Jones. ES**


	7. Chapter 7

Friday mornings were always a little sluggish in the Swan household. Where the week would always begin with great intentions; freshly squeezed orange juice and cooked breakfasts on the table, maybe a workout DVD before Henry awoke; by week's end everything inevitably went to hell. The snooze button always won out, in the end.

Which was how Emma came to be standing in the Starbucks line, late for work, having just ran the gamut of the school drop-off procedure, from signing permission slips to getting him through the school gate just before the final bell, all without a single drop of caffeine. It was not a great morning. And when her phone started ringing in her bag just as she reached the cashier, she knew it wasn't going to get any better.

With an apologetic glance at the cashier, she hurried through her standard order, digging through her bag for the ringing phone.

"Hi, I know I'm late, I'll be five minutes." The cashier at the counter rose an eyebrow, surveying the huge morning crowd. "Maybe ten," she amended.

"Uh, Emma?"  _Oh._ Neal. Not David on the line, inquiring to her whereabouts, as she had suspected. She cursed herself for not looking at the display first.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't look before I answered. I thought you were…"

"That's fine. Look, I was wondering if I could maybe pick Henry up from school today, and have him over the weekend?" There was a beat. "The whole weekend, this time."

"You're in town?" Emma looked around, as if expecting to see him peering at her from a nearby table.

"Maine. Again. Some in-law stuff, but we're headed back down today."

"Oh. That isn't a lot of notice…"

"Are you really going to be like this?"

"Like what?"

"Combative? C'mon Ems, it's too early for this." It really was. Emma still hadn't had her coffee yet.

"I'm not being combative. I didn't say no."

"Your tone suggests otherwise."

"There's no tone." There was absolutely a tone.

"Can I take him, or not?"

"Fine. But you have to call the school and leave a message for him, so he knows what is going on."

"Doesn't he have an emergency cell phone for that?"

"He uh… he dropped it off the fire escape a couple of days ago. Along with a tennis ball. Wanted to see which one would land first. Channeling Galileo or some shit. I swear, I don't know where he gets half of these ideas from."

"Christ, Ems." He was going for disappointed, but there a chuckle hidden behind the words. "Ten years old and already experimenting with gravity?"

"Don't worry, he's since been schooled in City ordinances that forbid dropping objects from apartment buildings. He now lives in constant fear of arrest." Neal chuckled for real this time.

"Do you want me to get him a new phone?"

"You're offering?" Emma hadn't expected that.

"Sure. I mean, why not? He's my son too. We can probably add it to our family plan."

Neal had a  _family plan?_ Emma felt her stomach drop.

When they had been together, Neal had a duffel bag and a stolen Volkswagen. Now he had a  _family plan!?_

_Who was this person?_

"Uh, great. Sure." Still, if he was going to be nice, she wasn't going to deter him.

There was a pause. One second too long.

"So how're things with the leprechaun?" She should have known. Scrap that. She  _had_  known. No conversation with Neal ever went smoothly.

"You had to fucking ruin it, didn't you?" Emma sighed.

"I'm just showing a healthy concern."

" _Sure_  you are.  _Killian_ is fine. We're fine. He's taking me out on a date tonight, actually."

"Like an actual out-in-public date?"

"What, like I'm incapable?"

"No… like you actually like him." The tone was pure surprise.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, I just… never mind. It doesn't matter. I'll call the school, set everything up. See you Sunday. About 5?" And then he hung up before Emma could ask him again what the fuck he meant by that.

"Emma? Venti Americano?" The voice of the harried barista rose above the din of the crowd. It was enough to snap Emma from glaring at her phone. Caffeine. Beautiful caffeine. At last.

She barely got to savor a single sip, before her phone started ringing in her hand again.

"Seriously?" she said to no one. This time, it really was David.

"I know, I know, I'm late. I'll be right there. Five minutes."

* * *

Bail-jumpers came in all types. There were the runners, who'd make a mad dash rather than reschedule a court date. These were the guys who thought they were headed for jail time, and they were usually right. They were the kind running down busy city streets in broad daylight, brandishing garbage cans. Then there were the resigned, who rolled over as soon as you introduced yourself, and came without a fuss. They were the silent majority. And then there were the obstinate, who seemed legitimately puzzled by the idea that they should keep their court appearances. They were the ones who tended to bite when the cuffs were slapped on.

Lacey French, aged 32, did not fit into any of these predetermined categories. Maybe she would've, if she'd been conscious.

Ms. French had missed a court appearance yesterday on her DUI charge. The DUI part had been a bit of a giveaway. A few discreet inquiries with the woman's work colleagues had yielded the address of a local dive, where she was something of a regular. The barman confirmed, pointing out the woman who was passed out on the pool table.

"Seriously?" She asked the barman. "It's noon!"

"Hey, I didn't serve her! She walked in like that. After she failed at ordering a whiskey sour, she fell asleep right on the table!"

"And you didn't think to move her? Call her family?"

"Hey, I've got a bad back, lady. You want to move her? Be my guest! And I know better than to dig around in a woman's purse!" He tossed his bar towel down, and stormed into the back. Emma rolled her eyes, pulling out her phone.

There was only one person to call.

"Jones."

"Hey."

"Swan?" The tone was wary. He knew her too well.

"Are you back in Boston?"

"Aye. And who is it that I shall be carrying today?" He definitely knew her too well.

"Lacey French. DUI."

"Poundage?"

"120?"

"Run out of overweight embezzlers for me, love? This is a pleasant surprise!"

"Something like that. She's passed out on a pool table." Emma walked over to the prone woman, and nudged her foot, as it hung over the edge of the table. Not even a twitch. She was down for the count.

"Your handiwork?"

"More the handiwork of Mr. Jack Daniels."

"Ah. Maybe I should stop for coffee and a bucket as well."

"Probably a good idea, if you value your upholstery. I'm at the Lucky Prince, in the Back Bay."

"Aye, I know it. No Guinness on tap and the barman is a right git, if I remember." Emma glanced at the entrance to the back room, where the guy had disappeared.

"You remember correctly."

"Be there in fifteen, love."

* * *

Here's there in twelve, striding through the door, two piping hot coffees in hand. How he could get coffee so fast during the lunch hour was a mystery. One which probably involved unleashing borderline illegal doses of charm, and a side of sexy accent on some poor, impressionable counter girl.

He offered one to Emma, and placed the other on the bar.

"Hey, no outside beverages!" The barman was back.

"Do you want me to leave her here?" Emma jerked her thumb at the indisposed Ms. French. She met the guy's gaze squarely, and waited for him to crumble. Which he did, eventually. Of course.

"Just get her out of here," he mumbled, wiping the bar over a few more times for no reason other than to appear relevant. Emma took a smug sip from her coffee, and if she burnt her tongue in the process, she didn't let it show.

Killian checked Lacey for any signs of approaching wakefulness. As if in response to his inquiries, she let out a sudden snore, before becoming eerily still once more.

"Yep. This one is a goner." He nudged Lacey's arm for good measure. Nothing. "Shall we, Swan?" He rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, and leaned forward to scoop up the woman. 120 pounds of dead weight, and he acted as if it wasn't a big thing.

"My car, I presume?"

"Unless you want to be the one to cram her into the back of my Bug?"

"My car," he agreed, leading the way.

* * *

"So…" he began.

"So?" They were in his car, headed for the police station. Lacey French was in the backseat, snoring softly. At least she was exhibiting signs of life.

"Still on for tonight?" He seemed unsure.

"For the second fake-date that you guaranteed would impress me?" She grinned at him, but he didn't return it.

"Aye," he scratched behind his ear, one hand still on the wheel. "That one."

"Are you alright?" Emma asked, watching him carefully. "You seem kind of... off?"

For the last hour, he'd been strangely quiet. Less jovial than usual. She hadn't been dodging wisecracks and innuendos at every turn.

"I'm fine, love."  _Lie._ Emma could tell these things.

She wondered if it was the kiss.

Killian Jones had been a flirt and a rascal every day for the last five years. And every day Emma had rolled her eyes at his ridiculous innuendos and waggling eyebrows. Until yesterday. And maybe, maybe that had caught him off guard. He hadn't changed their dynamic, after all. He was just being… Killian. She was the one that had kissed him.

Oh god. She'd made things awkward.

She'd made things awkward and now he probably was trying to tell her to step off.

"I mean, we don't have to. But Henry is at Neal's for the weekend, so I don't even have to get Ruby to babysit…"

"And how is the loquacious Ms. Lucas?" He asked, some interest sparking back into his eyes. Probably because, hello, Ruby.

"Texts me daily for updates on you, actually. Uses words like "mancake". I assure you, it's terrifying." He threw his head back and laughed heartily. It was kind of nice, to see him regain a little bit of humor.

"And pray tell, Swan, what kind of updates are you sending back?" There's a glimmer of the old Killian in the question.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she asked, coyly, taking another sip of coffee.

"Perhaps I would?" She glanced over her coffee cup at him. Flirting. He was definitely flirting. Maybe everything wasn't as bad as she feared.

"Sure." She answered finally. "We're still on for tonight."

* * *

"Where are you taking me?" Emma grumbled, pulling her scarf, a Mary Margaret original, a little tighter around herself. It was October, and it was starting to get a little too cold to be traipsing through parklands at night.

"Uh uh, Swan. It's a surprise." Killian looked back to check she was still following, but continued leading ahead, flashlight in hand.

"Are you finding a secluded place to kill me? Is that the surprise?" Killian merely chuckled, pausing ahead of her at a wrought iron fence. Emma scanned the sign by the gate with the light of her cell phone.

"The Arboretum? You know this place is closed, right?"

"Is it now?" he winked.

"Uh, yes?" she tapped the sign with her gloved hand. The hours of operation clearly stated the park was shut after dusk.

"Not to everyone." Even in the dim torchlight, she saw his teeth flash white.

"You know, I'm not 17 anymore. I don't find trespassing on dates all that alluring anymore."

"Trespassing? I don't know what you mean, love." And Killian produced a key from his jacket pocket, and began wrangling with the ancient padlock.

"And how did you get that?" Emma's hands were on her hips.

"I know a man who knows a man." He shrugged, grinning all the same.

"You're right. Low-level corruption. Way hotter than trespassing." Killian merely winked, before the lock finally broke free, and he pushed the gate open with a squeal of unoiled hinges.

"After you, darling." With some trepidation, Emma stepped forward into the park proper.

"You sure about this?" She asked, wrapping herself tighter into her coat.

"You'll see, Swan."

* * *

They'd been walking along an uphill trail in the dark for some time when Emma heard it.

"What was that?" she asked, freezing in place.

Emma was a city girl. Give her dimly lit alleyways and shady parking lots, and she knew what to expect. Where the danger was coming from, how to defend herself. But here, amongst the trees, anything could be lurking, and she had zero wilderness skills to help her. Foster kids didn't go on many camping trips.

"It's alright, love" came Killian's voice, soft in the dark. He placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, to keep her moving forward. "It's just William."

"William?" And that was then they broke through the tree line, and emerged on the top of the hill.

The very hill from which one could see all the lights of Boston's skyline, laid out below.

"Wow." She staggered back a step, her back making contact with Killian's chest. She went to move away, but he grabbed an elbow and held her steady.

"Like it, Swan?" He whispered in her ear. He was so close, she felt the hot breath on her neck. And it didn't affect her at all. Not one bit. The brisk October air was causing the shivering, of that she was certain. She open her mouth to respond, but found she couldn't. She nodded instead.

"Good." He released her elbow, and ducked off to the left, where there was what appeared to be two deckchairs set up, along with a picnic basket, a glowing lantern, and a bearded guy in a red beanie, smiling proudly. He and Killian shared a manly hug.

"And this is William. The nightwatchman who has so graciously allowed us to borrow his view." Killian gestured to his friend.

"William, Emma. Emma, William." Emma stuck out her hand to shake his, and was caught off guard when William raised her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

"The pleasure is all mine." He said. His accent wasn't local either, but he didn't have half the charm of his friend.

"Alright," said Killian, nudging William aside. "That's enough of that."

"Back to work, I guess," he sighed dramatically. "Have fun, Captain. Emma." With a tip of his beanie to them, he disappeared into the darkness.

Killian collapsed into one of the chairs, and Emma did the same.

"Captain?" She asked, reaching for the picnic basket.

"William and I served in the Navy together, many moons ago. He's never quite gotten used to using my Christian name." Emma had known about the Navy thing. The danger, after all, of working with someone who investigated people for a living, they didn't always stop at clients.

She also knew the part he didn't mention. The dishonorable discharge. She chose not to mention it either.

Instead, Emma opened the picnic basket. Baguettes. Champagne. Twizzlers.

"Seriously?"

"Impressed yet, Swan?" Killian winked, reaching for the bottle.

"This is…" She struggled to find the words. "Have you been taking the David Nolan Romance Master Class?" He popped the cork, and began to pour the champagne into two flutes.

"Contrary to popular belief, one doesn't need the tuition of David Nolan to woo a lady."

"Is that what is going on here? Wooing?"

"Why, do you feel wooed, Swan?" he asked, handing her a flute. Yeah, the flirting was back. Emma didn't reply, just took a sip of champagne. It was really good, and she could already feel it electrifying her insides as it slid down her throat.

"We didn't even toast!" he declared, in mock horror.

"And what are we toasting to?" Emma arched one eyebrow. Killian leaned over to refill her flute, and seemed to be pondering her question.

"To being convincing," he replied finally, clinking his glass with hers, and draining it in one go. His eyes didn't leave hers at any point.

And that's when Emma realized.

Henry wasn't even in town.

There wasn't anyone to convince.

But she'd gone on a date with Killian Jones anyway.

And he knew it.

She drained her glass too.

"Another."


	8. Chapter 8

Emma awoke to pain. So much pain. She felt like she'd been run over by a truck. Twice. Then like someone had taken a mallet to the back of her skull. Repeatedly. And then like she'd been reversed over by the truck again, for good measure.

She opened one eye. Sunlight. Pain. She closed it. She opened it again. Sunlight emerging from a window in an exposed brick wall. More pain. She closed it again. Emma's bedroom didn't have an exposed brick wall. She opened both eyes. It was still there.

This wasn't her apartment.

_Oh god._

This wasn't her apartment.

Emma sat bolt upright, rewarded with another stab of pain behind her eyes.

The other side of the bed was empty. Good. She checked the clothes situation. She was wearing them. Excellent. In fact, she was wearing all of her clothes from last night. Plus a leather jacket. A leather jacket that smelled like…  _Killian._ It was Killian's jacket. Killian's exposed brick wall. Killian's apartment.

Fuck.

"Happy two week anniversary, darling." Emma whirled around, to find Killian sitting on an armchair by the bed. His legs were slung over one arm of the chair and he was looking unbearably smug. She tried to glare at him, but the effort hurt. She tried to say something, but her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. And then she noticed what he was holding. A glass of water, and what she took for Tylenol. He noticed her gaze shifting, and held them out.

"Thought you might be in need of these." She took them from him, nodded gratefully, and washed the pills down with all of the water. Her ability to talk returned, Emma focused on what she best wanted to convey.

"What the fuck happened last night?" Killian grinned, in a way that made Emma want to slap him upside the head, if the very idea of movement of any kind wasn't painful.

"You tried to drown your attraction to me in champagne. And then you tried to kill it with vodka. And then when that ran out…" He reached across to grab the tumbler that was still sitting on the nightstand, and waved it under his nose. "Frangelico?" He made a face.

"Fuck." Emma clutched her head. No wonder she felt like sweet-pickled death. "And why am I wearing your jacket?"

"After the second vodka, you rather took a liking to it. And who am I to deny a lady?" He winked at her, and she felt she needed to ask.

"We didn't…I mean… you and I didn't…"

"We drank. We sang. Drunk Emma has an apparent affection for Motown. We may have danced a little on my coffee table. I'm pretty sure you broke it. I'll be expecting restitution for that." Emma risked more pain to send Killian a level look. He knew that wasn't what she wanted to know. He, in turn, arranged his features until he was the picture of innocence.

"I, as you know, Swan, am first and foremost, a gentleman." He placed a hand on his chest in apparent sincerity. "There was no removal of clothing, barring the aforementioned jacket, and all inappropriate touching could be construed as modern dance moves, which was, I think, by design." Emma rolled her eyes.

"Why am I here?"

"Mighty big question, Swan." He took a breath. "You see, for millennia, mankind have pondered the purpose of humanity, the meaning of life, if you will. Some say that humans are-" She couldn't hold it in any longer. She reached across and slapped him upside the head.

"Why. Am. I.  _Here_?" He pouted. Actually pouted. And then he relented.

"Out of the two of us, I am the only one who keeps alcohol in the house." That made sense. And then she was hit with a wave of nausea.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Emma pulled the covers back, and put both feet on the floor. She was still wearing her boots.  _Weird._

"Bathroom's through that door." Killian gestured to the far wall. Emma bolted for it. "Try to make the loo this time!" He called after her.

* * *

After she was done worshipping at the porcelain throne,  _fucking Frangelico,_ Emma took the opportunity to clean up a little. One glance in the mirror confirmed her suspicions. Her hair was a snarled mess, her eyes were bloodshot, barely visible as they were under the smudged mascara. There were creases on her face from the pillow still.

She looked like hell.

Whilst Killian managed to pull up that morning a little puffy-eyed, with adorably askew bed hair, she managed to look like she'd gone twelve rounds with an angry bear, and lost.

"Fuck."

She salvaged the situation as best she could with what little was available to her. Killian's bathroom was practically austere, and there was a significant dearth of women's haircare products and cosmetics. That was probably a relief, all things considered. She still stole some of his toothpaste. He wouldn't mind. When things were as good as they were going to get, she crept back into the bedroom. Killian was gone, but the tell-tale aroma of half-burnt bacon was wafting through the open doorway.

Gingerly, she stepped out into what appeared to be the kitchen. Killian was oblivious to her entry, his back to her, busy tending to whatever he had burning away in a skillet on the stove-top, whistling something hearty and most probably Irish. Emma took the opportunity to snoop. Apart from the night before, which was coming back to her slowly in bits and pieces, she'd never been in Killian's home before. Not in five years. The curiosity was almost overwhelming.

Emma would have expected a bit more of a bachelor pad. All chrome and black leather. It certainly would fit her image of the guy. But it was actually kind of… homey. The signature bay window marked it as a triple-decker, the view, as the third floor.

Coming up the stairs the previous night must have been an adventure.

The floorboards were new, shiny. The furniture was wooden, for the most part, the couch red worn leather, which looked recently slept on.  _That answered that question._  Seaside landscapes dotted the walls. There were books everywhere. In bookcases. On counters. On the floor next to the coffee table, which yes, only had two legs now. There was also a random scattering of glasses, bottles and Motown records. They really had made a night of it.

It was then that Killian noticed her entrance.

"Congratulations," he gestured to her bathroom efforts. "You look a little less like boiled shite." Emma gave him the finger, and stepped forward to see what he was cooking.

She grimaced when she saw the abundance of greasy confections.

"I promise, the grease will help. You'll feel like a whole new you." He said that last part as if he was channeling Oprah. It didn't help her headache. Emma sat down at the wooden dining table, where some books and a laptop had been shoved aside, two places already set.

"I just want to feel like the old me," Emma grumbled, folding her arms on the table, and burying her head in them. She was still wearing Killian's jacket, she realized, but the leather was soft against her cheek, so she made no effort to remove it.

"That's the spirit!" Killian said, dropping another glass of water and a few Tylenol on the table beside her.

"You're awfully chipper for someone who matched me shot for shot." Emma accused, downing the water and pills in one swift motion.

"Aye," said Killian, returned to his skillet, "I do seem to be, don't I?" He grinned again, stupidly.

"Please tell me it isn't something I said under the influence?" Emma groaned. "That stuff isn't admissible in court, you know."

"Au contraire. You were a paragon of discretion." He looked almost annoyed at the fact. "Your affection for my jacket, notwithstanding." He winked.

"It is a nice jacket," Emma quietly agreed, letting her head rest on her sleeve again.

"And it suits you well. But I'm getting it back." He affixed her with a stern expression.

"We'll see." Emma smiled at last, hugging it tighter around her.

Killian merely scowled, and set about transferring food onto plates, before presenting one in front of Emma with a flourish. Bacon, eggs, sausage, hash browns. Everything treading that fine line between crispy and burnt, just the way she liked it.

"You're amazing," Emma breathed, raising her knife and fork.

"I'm sorry, my phone wasn't recording, do you want to repeat that for those playing at home?" Killian asked, taking a seat opposite. Emma just smiled at him, her mouth full of hash brown.

"Gorgeous," he replied, before shovelling in a forkful of sausage.

* * *

"You can't keep it."

"But you said it suited me."

"Be that as it may,  _no_."

Killian had driven her home, because he was quote, unquote, a "gentleman". But now the time had come to take off the jacket, and Emma was strangely reticent. She tried pouting. Looking at him underneath her (newly re-mascara-ed) eyelashes.

"You can't use your feminine wiles on me, Swan. I've seen you conduct a million Honeytraps. I'm wise to all your tricks."

"Oh really?" Emma placed a precarious hand on his knee, and leaned forward, eyes glued to his lips. She licked her own. She began to slide her hand further up his leg.

"I didn't say the tricks weren't extremely fucking hot." He said, his voice gravelly, halting the advance of her hand with his own. She flicked her eyes from his lips back to his eyes. They were growing darker by the second, clouded by a tumult of lust. Men were so easy.

"Are you sure I can't keep it?" she asked sweetly, her hand beginning to massage his thigh through his jeans. Killian swallowed hard, moving perceptively closer with each shallow breath.

Which was when the sudden sound of a motorcycle engine turning over nearby startled them both out of their little lust haze. Emma turned to see the source of the commotion. It was a tiny, retro looking thing, piloted by a guy with honest-to-goodness aviator goggles sitting on his white helmet, a total hipster.

"Is that?" She tugged on Killian's sleeve.

"August W. Booth." Killian said it like a swear word, and started scrambling to undo his seatbelt. With all the confirmation she needed, Emma bailed from the car, and took off running. There was a stop sign at the end of the block. If she could get to him before he made it through…

He was still idling at the cross-roads, waiting for a break in traffic, when Emma jumped him. The bike skidded sideways onto the sidewalk, where it fell down against some trash cans. Emma and August both landed hard on the asphalt, but half his luck, August had a helmet. He recovered quicker than Emma did.

"So you're the girlfriend, huh? You're prettier, close up." The implications were temporarily lost on Emma, as she struggled to her feet.

"Who are you?" She blurted out, trying to pull her hair from her eyes. And that's when August W. Booth grabbed her wrist, and pulled her out of the way of an oncoming car.

* * *

"I'm the guy who just saved your life." He winked, brushing the dust off his peacoat. Emma didn't say anything, still in shock. But of course he had a peacoat.

"You could say thank you, you know."

"Thank you." Emma said suddenly. Apparently satisfied, he turned towards his motorcycle, but Emma's hand shot out and grabbed a hold of his arm.

"Who are you?"

"I'm August Booth. And you're Emma Swan. But we both already knew that, right?" There wasn't anything threatening in his tone. He was matter-of-fact. And yes, amused.

"Why are you following Killian?"

"You haven't figured that out yet?"

"Don't make me cuff you."

"It's a bit early for a citizen's arrest, Emma. And I haven't done anything illegal." Yet.

"I'm pretty sure stalking is illegal."

"I'll have to read up," he shrugged. "But your boyfriend is about to come around that corner, and I really must be going."

"Give me something." Emma was practically pleading at this point.

"I represent an interested party. But I don't mean any harm. Obviously." He gestured towards the road. "And it was lovely, meeting you at last." He looked meaningfully at Emma's hand on his arm, and without much thought, she let go.

He hurried over to his bike, and revved the engine. It was still somewhat upright, so apparently the engine hadn't flooded. A pity. And with a few extra revs, he took off, just as Killian did indeed round the corner.

"Emma?" Killian was breathing hard beside her. "He got away?"

"Kind of."

"Kind of?"

"He… saved me."

"Saved you?" He grabbed an elbow to turn her towards him, so that he could get a good look at her. He took in the grazed knees and palms, the dazed expression. "Emma?"

"I was about to be pancaked by a car, and he…saved me." Without giving it much thought, Killian opened his arms and enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug.

"I'm fine," she protested, although it felt kind of nice anyway. Safe.

"Oh no, this isn't for you," he laughed, pulling apart slightly. "This is all for me."

"You'd care if I got pancaked by a car?" Emma asked, half joking to diffuse the tension.

"Swan," he said, turning those steely blue eyes to hers, "I would care if you got pancaked by a car."

"Good." She smiled, giving him one last squeeze before stepping apart.

"He knew who I was."

"August?"

"Yeah. He knew my name. Knew that we were apparently dating. Intimated that he'd seen me before, from afar. Said that he "represented an interested party", but he didn't mean any harm. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him, I was just-"

"It's okay." He waved off the beginnings of her apology. "I'm just glad to have you still in three dimensions."

"He's been watching me too." Killian let out a loud sigh.

"Looks like."

"Do you think he's dangerous? I mean, I have Henry…"

"Do you think he's dangerous?" Killian wondered.

"He didn't seem to be, but I have no idea who "interested parties" might be. You haven't pissed off any mob bosses lately, have you? Taken down a kid of anyone particularly powerful? Slept with anyone's wife?" His eyes widened slightly at that last bit.  _Bingo._

"You  _have_ slept with someone's wife?"

There was no reason why Emma should feel a sudden stab of pain in her chest. But she felt it bloom all the same.

Killian saw the realization rising in her eyes.

"No! No, Emma!" He grabbed both of her elbows to hold her in place, eyes intent on hers. "It's not what you think."

"What do I think?" She laughed, but it didn't come out right. Kind of hard.

He opened his mouth to say something, scowled at the public venue, and led Emma into an open alleyway. He took a calming breath.

"A long time ago," he began.

"Yeah?" Emma's tone wasn't patient.

"A long time ago, I fell in love with a woman. But she was already married." He had the good grace to look guilty.

"She was going to leave him, for me." He raked a shaky hand through his hair.

"She had a young son. We planned to take the boy, and run away together." His accent had become noticeably broader with each recollection.

"But her husband found out, and I lost my job, amongst… other things."

"That's how you got kicked out of the Navy?" Emma's voice was small.

"Aye," he said, bitterly. "That's how I got kicked out of the Navy."

"Oh. And you think August is working for him? Or…" she didn't want to say it. " _Her_?"

"It's a possibility. The husband… he was…  _is…_ I suppose, an important kind of guy. He'd have the money for an untraceable Private Investigator."

"Or her?"

"It was a long time ago, Emma." He didn't seem willing to entertain the thought. Didn't want to let even a flicker of hope take hold. Emma could relate.

"The first cut always stings the most." Emma shrugged.

"Aye," he breathed, "That it does."

Killian turned away, sucking in a deep breath of city air, and began heading back towards Emma's apartment. Emma followed a few paces behind, to give him his space. And that was when she noticed something on the sidewalk, glinting in the sun. It was right by the trash cans that had been jostled by August's motorcycle, but they hadn't tipped over, so they probably were not the source. Whatever it was, it could have come off the bike. Emma waited until Killian turned the corner before reaching down to retrieve it.

It was a white, rectangular piece of plastic, shiny as she rotated it in her hands. A room key.

_Gotcha._

She hurried to catch up to Killian, but when he gave her that familiar half-smile at her reappearance, she found she couldn't find the words. Discreetly, she tucked the keycard into her jeans pocket, and tightened his jacket around her. She'd tell him. But not yet. First she had to know.

"You know what, Swan?" Killian paused, as they reached where his car was still parked, both doors still open. Security conscious, alright. He half climbed into the driver's side, but let his eyes rake over her one last time. "Keep the jacket. But you  _are_ paying me back for the coffee table."


	9. Chapter 9

"Isn't that Killian's jacket?" he asked, as Emma climbed into the passenger side of his truck.  _Of course those were his first words_.

Emma hadn't waited around much longer after Killian's Dodge Charger had peeled out of the parking lot to make her move. She had a lead on August, but there was no telling how long he'd stick around once he'd figured out his room key was missing. Time was not on her side. She'd already let him get away from her once. She wasn't going to let him get away a second time.

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through motel listings. Whoever was paying August,  _assuming someone was paying him_ , they had skimped out. The logo on the keycard traced back to a motel in Dorchester, only a slight cut above the one Emma had lived in after she'd gotten out of prison. That made things considerably easier. Desk clerks at shady motels could usually be counted on to be a little more talkative than their better-paid contemporaries at the Hilton's of the world, given the right motivation. She still needed back up, though. And that's where David came in.

"Yes." Emma went for the Band-Aid approach. "Yes it is."

"Huh." He couldn't quite hide the disapproving look on his handsome face. Yeah. David was handsome. Nice, too. He was happily married, and he was a good boss. A loyal friend. It was almost enough to make you sick. But it also made him unable to say no when Emma called him at 10 on a Saturday morning, and asked him to pick her up outside her building in exactly twenty minutes.

"So when Mary Margaret said the two of you were seeing each other," he began, trying to hide his discomfort, folding his arms over his chest in a very paternal way, "I guess you're really  _seeing_ each other."

So David thought she was sleeping with him.  _Getting off behind their backs_ , was how Killian had so colorfully phrased it. He was bound to assume that at some point during the ruse, but Emma felt the heat rise in her cheeks anyway.

She hadn't slept with him. She'd just spent the night. In his bed. He'd made her breakfast. He'd driven her home. There could have been a moment, in the car. Perhaps. Possibly. A sliver of a moment. And here she was, wearing his favorite jacket, the one that still smelled like him.

Yeah, okay. She would have drawn the same conclusion, given the same evidence at hand. That didn't mean she had to like it.

"We aren't talking about this." David shot her a look. An  _I know what you are doing_ kind of look. He was terrifyingly good at them. Emma pretended he wasn't. "I didn't rescue you from your Saturday morning plans scouring your local delicatessen for organic hummus, to talk about Killian Jones." David rolled his eyes at his hummus thing, but he could roll his eyes all he liked. Emma had seen the inside of his refrigerator. She knew better.

"Okay, so tell me, why did I abandon my weekend plans with my wife, exactly? You don't have any outstanding skips, that I know of."

"I'm going to search someone's motel room, and I need you to be my back-up."

"Why are you breaking into someone's motel room?" David was too smart for his own good sometimes.

"I'm not. I have a key." She pulled it out of her jacket pocket and waved it in front of him. David looked unconvinced.

"Doesn't Killian usually play the Ned to your Nancy?" That was a bit of an outdated reference.  _Who even read Nancy Drew anymore?_

"Usually," Emma agreed. "But you can't tell Killian about this. It's..." She floundered for an excuse," _personal._ "

 _"Emma,"_ the tone was 100% disapproving Dad.

"I know I'm being super vague, but I need your help, and you can't ask any more questions, and you  _definitely_  can't tell Killian." David wasn't like his wife. He could keep a secret. Did keep secrets. Emma's secrets. Had kept them before. It didn't come naturally to him, but nor did betrayal.

She could have told him about her little arrangement with Killian. She'd considered it. He would have kept it quiet, even from Mary Margaret. He would have hated that, but he would have done it, if she'd asked. But deep down, Emma suspected he wouldn't really get it, the why of it. Why she felt the compulsion to lie.

He'd never been the subject of idle gossip, and upturned noses.

He'd never had a group of people suddenly stop speaking when he walked into a room, their eyes filling with faux pity at the very sight of him.

He'd never had someone crush his heart so completely, that he wasn't even sure if he would survive it.

He hadn't felt a small, involuntary twinge of pain every time he looked into his son's eyes, always seeing the eyes of the person who had so betrayed him.

He hadn't felt the air rush from lungs when he'd literally run into that same person on the street, nine years later, arm in arm with a gorgeous, gazelle-like woman who ran marathons, and drank soy lattes, and wore pashmina scarves, and had never spent a single day in prison.

He hadn't then had to give this person occasional custody of his son, the one thing he cared about in his whole damn life more than this one stupid guy, who was different now, but still kind of the same, and hope against hope that he wouldn't break his son's heart too.

He hadn't then had to stand idly by, perma-grin affixed, as he made promises to someone else. Promises he had once made to her.

"One answer to one question. You owe me that." His attempt at bargaining shook Emma from her pity spiral.

His expression was almost embarrassingly earnest. The guy seriously should have been selling insurance on the television. There was nothing about that chiseled, All-American face that didn't scream  _I'm a decent, trustworthy guy who probably played a little football in High School and dated your sister._  In days past, Emma would have found that very quality cause for alarm. But she knew better now.

"Fine," she sighed. She was powerless in the face of all that  _decency. "_ One question."

"This person, whose room we are searching. Are they dangerous?" Emma considered this for a moment. She thought of August, pulling her out of the way of the station wagon that could have crushed her.

"I don't think so." And then she thought about how August had been following her. For weeks. Had probably been following Henry as well. "But I need to make sure."

"Okay then." Emma looked over at him, to check she'd heard right.

"Okay? Really?"

"Did you want me to say no?" He raised an eyebrow.  _Maybe.  
_

"Thank you!" If she'd been anyone else, she would have gone in for the hug. She settled for looking suitably grateful.

"Yeah, yeah," he waved away the gratitude. "So where are we going?"

* * *

August Booth's motel matched the Yelp reviews Emma had found that cheerfully described it as "cheap. no ice machine." and "wallpaper will make you want to kill yourself". It was all of that and more, a grubby little place set next to a strip mall just off Dorchester Avenue. The fact they even  _had_ keycards was surprising. But according to the faded sign out front, they did have HBO.

Emma made David do a loop of the parking lot to look for signs of August's motorbike, but the surrounding area seemed blessedly clear of retro motorcycles. They parked a block away. If August had been following Killian as closely as he seemed, he would know David's truck by sight. There was no need to tip him off about their little fishing expedition prior to the fact.

Emma took one look at David, his plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, arms crossed, wearing a no nonsense expression, and opted to leave him lingering outside by the vending machine while she had a cursory glance at the reception. Whatever Cop Face was, David had it. Probably because, once upon a time, he had been. A cop, that is. Or a Sheriff's Deputy, anyway, for a while. Maybe perfecting your Cop Face was part of the recruitment process. Emma didn't know, but it was useful sometimes, when you needed a little bit of authority. A blunt instrument. But some things required a little more finesse. That was Emma's territory.

The guy sitting behind the plexiglass window was probably mid-forties, balding, and wearing a bowling shirt. He was also asleep, his face resting on the magazine which lay on his desk, which he'd evidently not quite managed to finish. Excellent. He'd be disoriented. Unfocused.  _Malleable_. Emma rapped her knuckles on the plexiglass. The man shifted a little, but didn't wake. She put a little more force into her knock. His head popped up from the desk in a flash, the magazine still stuck to his face, hanging for a moment until gravity kicked in. Emma didn't catch the name of the publication, but there was a blonde model in a swimsuit on the front cover.  _Her course was set_. His chest unobscured at last, a nametag was visible. Chip. When he shook off that last bit of sleep and finally clapped eyes on Emma, giving her a wide, salacious grin, Emma decided that Chip was a nickname. The alternative, that his moniker matched the condition of one of his front teeth, was too much of a coincidence. Had to be.

"Checking in?" He asked brightly, smoothing back what little hair he had left with a sweaty palm.

"Actually no." Emma put a little extra breathiness into her words. "I'm looking for someone who is staying here?"

"We don't actually..." he trailed off when Emma began to pout. "Who are you looking for?"

"My boyfriend. Well... ex-boyfriend." He visibly brightened at her amendment. "Guy with the stupid skinny jeans and the retro motorcycle? Probably didn't give a real name, because he thinks he's James Bond?"

"Oh, you mean, Mr Smith from 9A?"  _Bingo._

 _"_ That sounds like him. Has he been around today at all?"

"I saw him leave sometime this morning on his bike, but I couldn't tell you what way he went."

"Shoot." Emma felt like this character was the kind of girl who would say that. Naive. Innocent. Unthreatening. Most of all that. "I was hoping to find him here. He still has a box of my stuff he never gave back."

"Oh." Chip rearranged his features in what he hoped was a sympathetic expression. "What a dick."

"I guess I'll try again later," she sighed, before fixing Chip with a conspiratorial smile. "You wouldn't be able to keep this between us, would you? If he finds out I'm looking for him, I'm worried he'll take off and I'll  _never_  get my stuff back."

"It'll be our little secret," he smiled, tapping his nose.

"Thanks, Chip. I'll see you later." She left the prospect of a second meeting dangling.

"And I'll be seeing you!" he called after her, as she walked back outside.

* * *

"Any luck?" He asked, pulling himself up from where he had slumped against the wall.

"Who needs luck? He's staying in 9A. Upstairs or downstairs?"

"A's are top floor." David was such a good reconnaissance man. Some people would have stopped for soda. Not David.

"Stairwell?"

"That door on the left." He said, pointing to what Emma would have originally thought to be the door of a janitor's closet. Chipped blue paint. No signage.

"Cheery."

"You haven't seen the stairwell yet." He was right about that too. The stairwell was dimly lit with a flickering fluorescent light, which tinged everything a sickly green, and Emma had flashbacks to institutional living.  _They had really skimped out._

They paused at the door to 9A.

"No use in knocking. He's not here. And even if he was, to knock would be to forewarn him." David mused. Emma silently agreed, placing the keycard in the slot. Both Emma and David held a breath. It turned green.  _Hallelujah_. Emma would never have to talk to Chip again.

August wasn't in. The room set the standard for the rest of the establishment. Clashing floral bedspread and wallpaper. An overpowering blast of bleach emanating from the bathroom. Furniture that had been thrown up from the seventies. Technically clean. Technically awful.

Emma went to work, scouring for personal items. She waved David into the bathroom, ignoring the jerk of his chin which said he'd rather guard the door. August's motorcycle was loud. Emma could attest. If he was approaching, they'd know about it. In the meantime, they'd be out of here quicker if they both looked.

"And what exactly am I looking for?" he asked, from the bathroom.

"Anything that says who he is, what he's doing, who he's working for, or where he has been."

"Well, that narrows it down," David muttered, but Emma still heard him.

"You  _know_  this is more fun than your planned expedition to Whole Foods." Emma teased, opening the closet.

A duffel bag. Not nothing. August W. Booth had a lot of skinny jeans. That much was apparent from a quick combing-through of his belongings. But there wasn't much else to find but dirty laundry.

"Uh, Emma?" David called. Emma paused in her rifling, and half ran into the bathroom.

"Find anything?" She asked, perhaps a little too eagerly. David was knelt on the black and white tiled floor, where he had evidently been scouring through the trash can.

"Care to tell me what the hell is going on?" He asked, holding out a crumpled photograph. It was Killian, but younger than she'd ever seen him. Barely scraping twenty, if she had to guess. Dressed immaculately in a navy uniform. Smiling. The same smile as always. Two parts charm to one part danger. No scar on his right cheek. Emma reached for it, but David was too fast. He pulled it behind his back, and rose to his full height, his cold blue eyes fixed on Emma's.

"What. Is. Going. On?"

"We really don't have time for this." Emma tried to dodge behind him, but he moved to intercept her.

"No, we don't. So you'd better make it fast." He crossed his arms again, in a way that Emma knew he meant it. She sighed. He'd come this far on just the one question, but she guessed she hadn't really expected him to sit idly by for long. He was involved now.

"This guy is stalking Killian. And me. Sometimes. I'm trying to work out why."

"Stalking Killian?" He had the photograph in his hand, and still the idea seemed to puzzle him.

"We think someone is paying him to. Maybe an old flame. Maybe her... husband." David swore under his breath.

"So why isn't he here, if you both know about this?"

"I didn't tell him I was coming." That look was back. That fatherly fucking look. "I found the key, and I just wanted to... I needed to..."

"You wanted to know if it was her," he finished. Emma opened her mouth to refute this, but nothing came out. She tried again.

"No, I had to see if..." She wasn't sure what she was going to say. That was it exactly.

She had wanted to know if Killian's ex was trying to find him again. Absolutely. And she wanted to know before Killian did. So she could... prepare herself. But prepare herself for what exactly? She and Killian weren't actually together. If he re-connected with an ex-girlfriend, it was none of her business. Even if he'd brushed off the idea that it could have been her, that was the theory which Emma had clung to. But why? Just as likely was a disgruntled skip, an old acquaintance with a grudge, or the husband of the woman. Far more dangerous prospects, too. So why did she find her first theory so confronting?

"You're scared." David interrupted, reading her face carefully. Emma looked up at him in confusion.

"What?"

"You're actually scared of losing him." He said this as if it was a revelation, one he'd never considered.

"No," said Emma hotly. "That's not... We're not..." She brushed away the tears that were beginning to spill down her cheeks. When had  _those_ appeared?

"We've got to hurry," she said suddenly, grabbing the photograph from David's unsuspecting hands. "He could be back any minute." She hurried back into the main room, stuffing the photograph inside her jacket pocket. The duffel bag was still half hanging out of the closet, and she rushed to set it to rights. She placed it back where she found it, skinny jeans folded neatly as before, and resumed her search. All of the drawers were empty, except for Gideon's Bible. Nothing under the bed. Nor behind the radiator. That left only one place. The usual place.

An eight year old Emma Swan had once kept a journal, written in the back of an old exercise book. It contained detailed descriptions of what her real parents might be like, and unflattering caricatures of her latest foster family. Every night before bed, she'd carefully tucked it under her mattress, secure in the knowledge that no one would look for it there. Only she would know. Until her twelve year old foster brother, the one that beheaded all of the second-hand Barbies she'd been given by her foster parents, had found it, and began reading it aloud one night at family dinner, right before dessert. The resulting mayhem had landed Emma back in a group home a week later, having learned a valuable life lesson.

Never keep anything under the mattress.

No one had ever taught August W. Booth this lesson. Maybe he didn't have any siblings. Maybe he assumed housekeeping would be too lax to notice. In any case, when Emma wedged her hand between the mattress and the bed frame, she hit paydirt.

A disposable cell phone.

She scrawled through the call history. There was only one number listed, in the outgoing call log. Emma pulled out her own phone and saved it, before putting it back where she found it. David came out of the bathroom then, shaking his head. She gave the room a last once-over, before declaring it as hideous as it had been when they first entered, and then they made a break for it.

It wasn't until they were back in the truck that anyone spoke.

"You won't tell him, right?" Emma implored him.

"No," David agreed, turning the engine over. "But maybe you should."

Emma felt for the crumpled photograph in her pocket, tracing the edges with her fingertips. Yeah. She should tell him. But which part?


	10. Chapter 10

"You'll never guess what I found outside the door of my apartment this morning." These were Killian's first words of greeting, as he slipped into their shared office on Monday morning. He took a seat on the edge of Emma's desk, moving a framed picture of Henry out of the way to make room for himself. He could never just sit in a chair, like a normal person.

"Oh?" answered Emma, not looking up from her laptop.

"Feign disinterest all you like, darling." He said, closing her laptop lid so they were face to face. "The old crone downstairs has your Bug written on her register of unfamiliar vehicles parked on our street."

"She keeps a register?"

"Oh yes. Neighborhood Watch has nothing on this woman." Emma would have to remember that.

"Well, would anyone else be leaving you a coffee table?" She quirked an eyebrow. She tried to open the laptop again, but his hand stayed firm, weighing it down.

"I'm more intrigued by the idea that you delivered it yourself. I know how you got into the locked front door, but however did you get it up two flights of stairs?" Emma shrugged.

"Henry helped."

"The lad helped?" There was something fond behind his smile when he said this, underneath his surprise. Something that tugged at Emma, in ways she couldn't name.

"And  _you'll_  never guess who I bought it from."

"Who?"

"Think, Jones, how many antique shop owners have we taken down?" It look him a minute. But eventually awareness crept into his eyes, his lips turning up at the corners.

"THE FLYING MONKEY?!"

* * *

It had been a long, Henry-less Sunday. David made Emma promise to try to enjoy it, to leave the August stuff for a day. So, in an attempt to keep her word, she'd visited a string of antique shops in Cambridge, searching for a suitable replacement for the coffee table she'd broken. She remembered that part now. It had definitely been her fault. Smirnoff's fault too. But mostly hers.

Now that she knew what Killian's living room looked like, she knew a trip to Ikea was out of the question. Killian's furniture was all one-off, sturdy, wooden pieces, not a hint of Scandinavian pine in sight. The fact she'd even managed to break any of it in the first place was a miracle.

She'd forgotten all about the flying monkey's day job selling antiques. If memory served, his missed court appearance had been over leaving the scene of an accident, after running into a parked car with his SUV. Emma wasn't a shrink, but she thought maybe Mr Walsh Baum had some issues facing up to his mistakes.

So when she saw him standing there, the flying monkey man, behind the counter, a bored expression on his face as he flipped through some catalog or other, she debated turning around and going elsewhere. She'd been about to. And then the electronic bell on the door had given her away, and he'd looked up.

He remembered her, alright. It had been a year and a half since their last encounter, but it still took all of two seconds for all of the color to drain from his face.

"Don't freak out," Emma held up her hands, in a sign of good faith. "No handcuffs this time." A woman in the back of the store paused to give her a curious look. "I'm just looking for a coffee table."

He didn't say anything for a long time, just seemed to be weighing up the truth of her words, and swallowing back a lingering impulse to run. Eventually he gave a little cough and circled around the desk, a wry smile on his face.

"Any particular style in mind?"

In the end, he'd helped her carry it out to her car, amused by her choice of ride. The table she'd chosen barely fit in the backseat.

"What happened to the Charger?"

"Oh, you mean the one we bundled you into? It's my partner's."

"The Irish guy?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled, surprised he remembered. "Same guy the coffee table is for."

"Oh." His face fell then, and Emma wondered what she had missed.

"Oh?"

"So I guess asking you out would be out of the question, then?" Emma mind reeled, thinking back on the last twenty minutes. Had there been flirting? Was that what had been happening? She thought she'd been buying a table.

"I see from that look on your face you didn't pick up on my oh-so-subtle flirting." Subtle was right.

"Ah, not as such, no."

"Never mind, it was a stupid idea anyway." He turned to go back inside.

"It wasn't stupid," Emma admitted, halting his movements. His tendency to run from his problems notwithstanding, he didn't seem to be a bad guy. "I just..."

"Not available. Got it." He gave a wan smile. "He's a lucky man." Emma didn't correct him. "Would have made for a hell of a "How Did You Meet?" story though, right?" He grinned, and Emma grinned back.

"Nice meeting you, Emma. Properly."

"Likewise."

She drove home, ignoring the parts of her that were warring over her ridiculous excuse for a love life. Flying Monkeys. Fake Boyfriends. Some people had cats. Maybe cats would be less trouble.

By the time Henry got home, she practically pounced on him as he came in the door. He, of course, was very much down for a clandestine delivery mission under cover of darkness. He'd even given it a codename. Operation Stingray. The red bow on top had been his idea. They'd stopped at a gas station for it, on the way.

* * *

There were no words to truly capture the look of glee on Killian's face. He looked like all his Christmases had come at once.

"The very same," Emma smirked.

"This is amazing!" He stood up and walked over to Emma's chair, pulling her out of it, and twirling her on the spot. He was grinning like an idiot.

"There's more." She warned, returning his grin.

"How could there be more? Is he married to the Wicked Witch of the West?"

"It's Irish. Like you." He dropped her hands, his grin fading whilst his eyes seemed to get larger, bluer.

"19th century, so old. Like you." Killian scoffed. He was 33. A whole five years older than Emma. Which she nevertheless always seemed to bring up, whenever she managed to chase someone down before he did.

"Aaand," she declared with a flourish, "It can withstand two people dancing on it at the same time. Henry and I might have road tested." She smiled proudly.

"You're a bloody marvel, Emma," Killian breathed.

And then he reached up to cradle her face in his hands, and kissed her.

It was slow, like the first. Sweet. Tentative. As if Emma was going to push him away at any moment. When she didn't, he took a step forward, some of that usual confidence flooding back in. With a sweep of his tongue, he deepened the kiss, and Emma let him, her hands gliding over his arms.

Which was precisely the moment Mary Margaret decided to enter their office without knocking, holding a coffee pot.

"There's fresh coff... oh." Her chipper tone sank like a lead balloon.

Emma and Killian scrambled apart, putting as much distance between themselves in the small room as possible. It wasn't a lot. Mary Margaret was still frozen in place, looking between them.

"I'm..." Her voice had gone super squeaky in her discomfort. "I'm going to go. Yes. I'm going to do that." And then she slowly backed out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Convincing." Killian remarked, sliding down his section of wall. And then he threw back his head and laughed like a madman. Emma wanted to be angry. Or scared. Her usual second-guessing self. But it was too ridiculous. The whole thing. Emma fell back into her chair, and joined in Killian's laughter.

"You know, it'll be good for her to experience that from someone else's perspective." Emma mused, once she'd quietened, and the pain in her side had subsided. That set Killian off again, and he had to bury his face in his hands until he stopped.

The door opened again, and David poked his head through, as if checking everyone was still decent. His unimpressed gaze took in their flushed faces and lack of proximity, Killian's occasional involuntary chuckles.

"A word, in my office?" His voice was firm. It wasn't really a question. "Both of you." He slammed the door shut.

"Why do I feel like I've just been called up by the principal?" Emma moaned. Killian rose to his feet, and made his way back over to Emma's desk again.

"Because we're in trouble, Swan." His eyes met hers, his hands linking with her own to pull her up. "A whole load of trouble."

* * *

The silence was deafening.

If David's plan was to intimidate them to death, then he was already halfway there. He himself was sitting stony-faced behind his desk, looking between them. They shared a glance. If they were going to the gallows, they were going together.

Finally, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Mary Margaret is having a dinner party on Friday." He paused to clear his throat, his gruff tone taking its toll. "And you're coming. Both of you."

"Huh?" Whatever Emma had been expecting, it hadn't been that.

"I don't like it." He looked between them meaningfully. "But as my wife so kindly reminded me, I'm not in a position to cast stones."

"Pot, meet Kettle." Killian mumbled under his breath. Emma nudged him with her shoulder. He nudged her back.

"God, it really is awkward to watch," David murmured to himself. Emma flinched away from Killian suddenly, as if she'd been burned.

"What's with the dinner party?" Emma asked at last.

"Mary Margaret's step-mother is going to be in town. She's going all out, and it's going to be a disaster. And since you  _both_ happened to individually owe me one right now," he gave them both a level look, "I've decided to collect. You're coming, and you're going to make sure no one stabs anyone else."

"I've got Henry this weekend. I can't go to a dinner party."

"Bring him."

"To the dinner party where people try to stab other guests?"

"Not if you do a good job." David winked.

There went her escape plans.

* * *

"Did he just blackmail us into being his private security?" Emma asked, once they'd barricaded themselves back in their own office, away from the prying eyes of the Nolans, and their many meaningful looks.

"That is precisely what he just did, love." Killian sighed, leaning back on his chair.

"Oh good, I wouldn't have wanted to have missed anything." Killian snorted.

"What did he mean, when he said that we both owed him?" Killian asked suddenly.

"Exactly what he said, I expect," Emma brushed him off, sitting down and opening her laptop again.

"But why do  _you_  owe him?" He was like a dog with a bone, and Emma needed him to shut up.

"Why do  _you_?" Emma asked, a challenge rising in her voice. Killian wheeled his chair forward, until his knees bumped hers, their faces level.

"Five years ago, I told him that I would never pursue you. Romantically, or otherwise. Gave my word that I wouldn't." He scratched behind his ear. "I don't know, I think I might have fucked that one up. What do you think? And I think he might've maybe remembered."

Emma felt her gut sink to her knees.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously, did I fuck it up? Were you not here earlier when my tongue was down your throat?" She smacked his shoulder.

"Seriously, did he make you promise that?"

"Yes. Repeatedly. He really drilled it in."

"He really does think he's my father, doesn't he?" Emma asked, forlornly, slumping in her chair.

"He really, really does."

"And you agreed?" She turned to him, stabbing a finger at this chest.

"I was being a gentleman. Or... trying to be."

"Is that why..." she paused. No. She didn't want to know the answer to that.

"Is that why, what?"

"Nothing. It's not important." Killian didn't look at all convinced.

"In that case, fine, why do  _you_  owe David?" Emma's blood froze. Killian caught the look. The look of a startled deer in headlights. "Anything you wish to tell me, darling?"

"That depends," Emma began. "You remember how you thought I was a marvel about twenty minutes ago?"

"Vividly." The way he said it, he made it sound obscene.

"I found where August was staying, and I brought along David, for back up."

"You what?"

"Still think I'm a marvel?"

"Why didn't you call me?" Emma closed her eyes, wondering if she had the strength to tell him. When she opened them again, his eyes were still intent on hers, but there wasn't any anger there. She bit her lip, eyes drawn to her own hands.

"Because if your ex-girlfriend really was keeping tabs on you, I didn't want you to know." Emma replied, her words spilling out in an awkward singsong. She could feel the humiliation pulsing beneath her skin, the rush of blood in her ears.

"Emma." She didn't look at him. He grabbed at the hands she had been so intent on, forcing her to look at him.

"Emma," he repeated. "Milah isn't the one following me. She couldn't be." A final pause. "She died."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide (suspected). It's heavy.

Emma was such an idiot. A stupid, jealous idiot.

She'd let jealousy of a dead woman cloud her judgement. Jealousy of Milah, who had a name now, in her head. What had she been so afraid of? That Killian would go back to her? That they'd rekindle their affair and she'd be left in the dust? Who was she kidding? Was that really reason enough to latch on to an erroneous theory, ignoring alternate and decidedly more likely possibilities that put her and those she cared about in danger?

Yeah. She could admit it to herself. If only to herself. She had been jealous. And yeah, she did care about him. Of course she did. And look where it had gotten her. Trailing behind Killian as he navigated the streets of Mission Hill on foot, his own personal storm cloud hanging above his head. They'd been walking for blocks, and he hadn't said a word. Not a single syllable since they'd left the office, after Emma had finished detailing her and David's excursion to August's motel. He'd just stood up, mumbled something about a drink, and indicated Emma should follow him.

So she had.

He finally stopped on Tremont Street outside a cosy shop with a red awning out front, the scent of roasted coffee beans wafting out of the open windows and smacking Emma in the face.

"A coffeeshop? I thought we were having a drink?" She could use one.

"Ever think that maybe we drink too much, Swan?" he asked wearily.

She was beginning to.

"This place will be fine," he said, pushing open the door. "The apple pie is nice, and the waitresses aren't chatty."

They snagged a booth in the back, as far as they could get from the gaggle of scruffy college kids with iBooks who'd taken over the couches. True to Killian's internal notes on the place, the waitress, a bored looking woman surely on the cusp of retirement, barely glanced at them as she took their orders. When she disappeared into the kitchen, Emma looked up at Killian expectantly, her hands clasped together on the table in front of her. If Emma thought it was story time, she was in for a rude awakening.

Killian pulled a phone out of his pocket, and placed it on the table between them. It wasn't his usual iPhone. It was a disposable phone, a burner, practically identical to August's. Or to anyone's really, who was prepared to shell out fifteen bucks at Wal-Mart.

"You have the number?" He didn't have to specify which. Emma nodded, drawing out her own phone to pull it up from her contacts list. Slowly, carefully, she entered it into the burner phone. She glanced at him before she hit the call button. He took a deep breath and nodded. "Put it on speaker."

Four rings. Four excruciating rings. And then it went to voicemail.

"Hello, Emma."

Emma knew the voice on the recorded message. Measured. Amused. It was the voice of one August W. Booth, or whoever the fuck he was.

"Did you ever read the tale of Hansel and Gretel? Do they read little orphans bedtime stories, Emma? Two kids out alone in the wilderness, just trying to get home? Following a trail of bread crumbs that never went anywhere? Sound familiar?"

And then came the beep.

"Motherfucker!" the curse burst through Emma's lips, as she grabbed the phone and threw it against the nearest wall. Because it was manufactured with all of the careful love and attention that typifies a Taiwanese sweatshop, it broke into four pieces on impact. A couple of nearby students peeked over their laptops with narrowed eyes at the commotion, Emma's outburst attracting the attention of precisely zero of the staff. She ducked her head down anyway.

"That was my phone," Killian said a little forlornly.

"Oh." Emma was hit with that very realization. "Oh. Shit. Sorry Killian." He waved away her apology.

"It had served its purpose, love," he shrugged.

"So the whole thing was a set-up." Emma had thought she had been so clever. Getting around Chip. Looking under the fucking mattress. "The keycard. The motel. The phone. He's just been fucking with us this whole time!" She was struggling to control her volume levels.

"Looks like." Killian's answer was matter-of-fact. Too matter-of-fact.

"Why don't you seem as pissed off as I am right now?"

"Do you have the picture?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The picture of me. The one David found in the bin. Do you have it?"

"Sure," she said, rummaging in her bag for her wallet. A glimmer of the familiar boyish grin broke through when she pulled it out.

"You kept a picture of me in your wallet?"

"Shut up," Emma rolled her eyes, handing over the crumpled photo. She had tried to smooth it out as best she could, but it wouldn't ever sit pretty in an album.

He took it gently, and was shrewd in his approach. He examined the photograph carefully, front and back, before lifting it to his nose and inhaling deeply. Emma was about to make a crack about channeling Sherlock Holmes, when Killian spoke again.

"This was Milah's."

"Everything August has done so far has been a trick, what makes you think this is any different?" Emma asked, piling cream onto her slice of apple pie with a spoon.

"Because I gave it to her." Killian shrugged. "And it still smells like her." His eyes were a little glazed over. Emma had read that stimulating the olfactory sense was the best for triggering memory. If that were true, then she really didn't want to be in Killian's head right now. She watched him tip the container of sugar sachets out on the table next to his untouched slice of apple pie.

"She was my first love, you know. The first cut always stings the most." He wasn't looking at Emma, even as he quoted her earlier words, his attention solely focused on stacking the sugar sachets into size order. "It shouldn't have happened at all. The Navy isn't really big on fraternization, as a rule. She was married. She had a child. She was beautiful. I was just a fucked up lad, fresh off the plane, carrying nothing but dual citizenship papers, who thought working for Uncle Sam might help him get a foothold. But she wanted me." His eyes flickered up to Emma's for a second.

She knew that feeling. It was the same one she'd felt when she tried to steal a car that had already been stolen, by the thief sleeping in the backseat. He'd been older. And charming, in his own way. He didn't think she was annoying, or not worth the trouble. He knew how to steal without looking guilty. He knew just what to say when he was pulled over by the cops. He knew how to pick locks and break into motel rooms. And he'd wanted her.

"We kept it up a long time. We were careful. So bloody careful." His words echoed his motions, arranging the sachets into pairs now, leaning one against another in a series of triangles, as if he was building a house of cards. "But the husband found out, eventually." He began to place a sachet between each peak, completing the first floor of his sugar house.

"His first response was to report us. The penalty for fraternization is dishonorable discharge, in case you didn't guess. He'd never liked her chasing a Navy career anyway. And he thought that if he could separate us, the affair would end." Emma got the feeling that wasn't the end of the matter. He was building the second floor of the house, but his first peak collapsed. They both held their breath, but the first floor remained steady. He extracted the collapsed sachets, and started anew.

"It didn't end, did it?" Emma realized she was still holding her spoonful of apple pie, frozen as soon as Killian had started talking. She dropped it back into the bowl, her appetite forgotten.

"No. Separating us had the curious effect of making us both realize how much we didn't want to be apart. She'd wanted to leave her husband for a long time, but she couldn't. While she was deployed, her husband was the one looking after their son. She knew if they split up, he'd get custody. He'd poison him against her. She didn't want that." He laid out the final sachet on the second floor.

"So together we hatched an ingenious plan." He practically spat the words. "And naturally enough, her husband learned of it, and paid me a little visit before we could implement it. To be honest, I don't think it was the affair he minded, so much as the plan to take the lad with us. Back to Ireland. Well, without the permission of her husband, that right there is Conspiracy to Kidnap a Minor."

"Shit."

"Precisely. He had me dead to rights, and he knew it. He was an influential man. Traded heavily in favors. He had all kinds of people in his pocket. Police. Journalists. Judges. He gave me a plane ticket to JFK, and an ultimatum. Stay with Milah, and he'd pin me for something that would land me in Federal prison for decades, or worse. Leave, and I'd be a free man."

"So you left?" Everyone did, in the end. Killian threw back his head and laughed. It was a terrible, unfunny laugh. A few sachets fell down from the force of it.

"May I remind you I was a headstrong young man in the grips of his first serious love affair? I tore the ticket in half right in front of his face and told him to go to hell." Emma suspected that had consequences.

"And what did he do?"

"He went home and told Milah I'd taken the ticket to New York. She, in turn, waited until her son was asleep and then cut her wrists and bled out in the bath." He smacked his palm on the table with a deafening finality, knocking over the rest of his house. Emma felt her own hand slide over his automatically, but no words came.

"And that, was the end of that."

Emma couldn't ever do that. Even if Neal was around more, a more engaged parent, she would never, ever, leave Henry alone like that.

"And you're sure that she... uhm...?" Emma regretted the question immediately, but Killian still caught her meaning.

"Part of me wanted for him to have killed her. So I'd have a a target, for all the rage. I investigated, of course. Independently. Thoroughly. Everyone who examined her agreed, her wounds were self-inflicted. He may well have driven her to it, but he didn't kill her." He sighed. "Not in the way that matters to prosecutors, anyway."

"And her son?" The one she'd left behind.

"Ben. Still lives with his father. He'd be maybe fifteen now."

"I couldn't do that," Emma whispered. She felt her thoughts form into words, but she couldn't stop them. Killian cocked an eyebrow. "I couldn't leave Henry like that." Killian flipped his hand over, so that he could entwine his fingers with hers.

"No, I don't think you could either, love," he said, squeezing her hand. "I loved Milah. With everything in me. But she could be selfish. She joined the Navy with a toddler at home, because she craved excitement. An escape from her loveless marriage. And for a while, that's what I was too. She wasn't perfect. She was very... flawed." He exhaled loudly, as if some of the weight of his confession had lifted from his shoulders.

Emma gently loosened her grip, bringing her hand back across the table, trying to create a little distance. Some breathing room.

"So is that who you think August is working for? The husband?" He shook his head.

"August's methods seem too convoluted for him. He used to be direct. Up front. He would tell you exactly how much you'd fucked up, and exactly what you owed him in recompense. He didn't bother with fairy tale analogies and vague fucking hipster messenger boys."

"The picture might be just something to throw you off. Like everything else. A plant. Make you think this is about..." Emma couldn't use her name. Didn't dare use her name. "When actually it's about something else entirely."

"Perhaps." Killian was back to sorting out sugar sachets. "But I'm curious as to where he found that picture."

So was she. Emma still had plenty of questions for August W. Booth.


	12. Chapter 12

Chasing down August would have to wait, however, until after the evil stepmother was out of town.

Mary Margaret's mother had died when she was a kid. Cancer. It had been perhaps the defining moment in her young life, the one that determined the type of adult she would grow up to be. Warm. Forgiving. Eternally hopeful, and unafraid of loving with her whole heart. Just like she remembered her mother being, before all of tests, the chemo, the slow decline.

So when her father remarried a year later, to the surprise of everyone, Mary Margaret didn't take it all that well.

Regina was a shark. Which is to say, she was a lawyer. The scary kind. The kind who could reduce hardened criminals to blubbering messes after five minutes of cross-examination. No one knew exactly what the attraction was. Which is not to say that Regina wasn't a beautiful, intelligent woman, if you didn't mind no-nonsense pantsuits, blood red lipstick, and a snarky streak. But she wasn't a thing like Mary Margaret's mother. Not in the least.

As Mary Margaret told it, her father and Regina had met on a trip to Walden Pond, one of her mother's old favorite haunts. Mary Margaret had wandered away from her father's side, to feed some ducks down by the pond. And then, he wasn't there at all. A startled Regina had found her whilst on a hike, the girl sobbing all alone by the water's edge, and had taken her hand, and led her to the nearest park ranger, who'd radioed around a description of the missing child's father. He'd turned up fifteen minutes later, shaken, tears streaking down his face. He'd bundled his little girl into his arms, rocking back and forth, whispering promises into her hair. And then he'd stood up, brushed himself off, and offered a warm smile and a proffered hand to the woman who had found his little girl.

They were married a month later.

The relationship between Mary Margaret and Regina could best be described as... diplomatic. They had never been close. Hell, they openly distrusted one another. But for the sake of the man they had in common, they'd clenched their jaws and bore it.

But when he'd died a few years back, things inevitably worsened. Regina didn't temper her sarcastic barbs any longer in front of her step-daughter. Mary Margaret didn't spare her accusations. As a result, Regina's occasional visits were always wrought with tension. The kind of tension that set Mary Margaret uncharacteristically on edge days in advance, and David scrambling for friends to blackmail into keeping the peace.

* * *

Only one day into Regina's visit, the negative energy was already reverberating throughout the office. Killian had deliberately waylaid Emma in the parking lot that morning, blocking her parking space with orange cones, just so he would get the first assignment of the day, staking out a restaurant in Chinatown. David had escaped an hour ago, citing an urgent meeting that wasn't in his day planner. That left Emma all alone with a highly-strung Mary Margaret, who was flicking through recipes on her iPad with perhaps a little more violence than the task really demanded, muttering darkly under her breath.

"Cookie?" Emma, asked innocently, holding out an open packet of Oreos. Mary Margaret just shook her head, not looking up from the screen.

"Sugar won't solve this."

"Liar." Emma took a seat on the edge of her desk. "Sugar solves everything." Mary Margaret just sighed, and held out her palm. Emma dug out two cookies, and watched with some satisfaction as the woman abandoned her task, eyes closing in pleasure at the first bite.

"See?" Her friend just shook herself from her sugar haze, and redoubled her focus on her iPad.

"Henry's allergic to peanuts, right?" Mary Margaret looked up suddenly.

"Shellfish." Emma corrected, getting worried now. Mary Margaret had been the one to drive him to the hospital when he'd had his first allergic reaction, Emma stuck in Worcester chasing after a skip. It had been a harrowing night. It wasn't the kind of thing one just forgot. Especially not someone as infuriatingly together as her.

"Are you okay?" Emma asked, warily.

"Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be okay? I'm just planning and executing a three course dinner for ten people, catering to three different food allergies, with no help, while my evil stepmother is staying in the guest room, delivering subtle criticisms of everything from the brand of soap we use, to the thread count of her sheets, to David's affection for plaid, to the reasons we haven't tried in vitro fertilization yet. Does Merlot pair with Roasted Duck?"

It was intervention time.

Emma made a grab for the iPad.

"Yes," she said, holding out of her friend's reach. "But that isn't important right now. What you need to do right now is breathe." Mary Margaret fixed her with a cold stare, but Emma didn't give up easily. She placed the iPad down, and grabbed a hold of her friend's shoulders.

"I know you mean well, Emma. But what I really need is to-" Emma didn't let her finish.

"You're going to have give yourself a panic attack unless you calm down." It wasn't an idle claim. Whilst Mary Margaret was no wilting magnolia, in the past she had been known to work herself into such a state that she'd felt unable to breath. Her symptoms almost always seemed to worsen when Regina was in town.

Eventually, Emma felt Mary Margaret's shoulders relax under her hands, and she slumped back into her desk chair.

"Better," said Emma, finally removing her hands and leaning back herself. She didn't have much experience suffering through familial obligations, but she'd had plenty dealing with assholes.

"Now may I remind you that you are an equal partner in a successful small business, a generous and awesome friend, happily married to someone you are _still_  crazy about, owner of a very nice loft full of a ridiculous amount of cute hats, and a devoted and much-loved Aunt." She gave her friend a warm smile. "Regina may know where to land her barbs for maximum damage, but she can't change those fundamental truths, okay?" Mary Margaret nodded, but there was a sheen of incoming tears in her eyes that Emma had rather hoped to avoid.

"Good. Now eat a cookie. And if that doesn't work, there's rum in Killian's desk." Emma picked up the iPad again, flicking back to where Mary Margaret had been browsing. "And you're  _not_  doing this without help. But let's not go with the Roasted Duck."

* * *

"I see you thought you'd try wearing some of your own clothes for a change, darling," Killian said first when Emma swung open the door. He gestured to her fuzzy sweater and jeans combo, the jacket that she'd favored all week glaringly absent. Emma rolled her eyes and pulled him into the loft by his sleeve.

David had told them both to show up early, and Killian was uncharacteristically late. Everyone else had already arrived, and Mary Margaret was holed up in the kitchen, having a silent meltdown.

" _Do not_ say stuff like that in front of the kid," she whispered into his ear, as she pulled him towards the gathered guests. "And you're late." She kissed his cheek, so the others would think she was playing nice, took the bottle of wine he was holding, and pushed him towards his seat. She made no mention of the fact that he was about to be used as a cannon fodder. He'd learn soon enough.

Emma didn't stay to assess the group's reactions to Killian's overdue appearance, disappearing into the kitchen area to assess Mary Margaret's mental state. Because David and Mary Margaret were upwardly mobile young professionals, their marital home was also a very cutesy converted loft in an old warehouse building with enough exposed brick, distressed wood, wrought iron and open living space to quench all of Mary Margaret's aesthetic whims. Which was great, a lot of the time. But not if you were trying to hide from your dinner guests. Fortunately, the background drone of dinner conversation afforded some measure of privacy.

"I found a stray Irishman roaming the hallway. I let him in, I hope you don't mind." Emma announced, walking in to find Mary Margaret hadn't heard her, her head buried in the oven. "Um..." Emma put the bottle down on the bench with the others and stepped forward, voice lowering. "Are you having a Sylvia Plath moment? Because she'll be gone by Sunday." To her immense relief, her friend emerged a few seconds later, startled to see her standing there.

"Sorry, I was just checking the fan is working. Is Killian here?"

"He's here."

"Thank god, I was worried the soup would get cold. Okay," she clapped her hands together. "Starters." She motioned for Emma to grab a tray, she grabbed the other and together out to the waiting guests.

For all of their square footage, the Nolans didn't own a table that could comfortably seat ten people. So they'd improvised, pushing their regular table together with Mary Margaret's sewing desk. When you put a tablecloth over it, you couldn't much notice the slight height difference. The woman sitting at the head of the table noticed. Emma got the feeling, as she watched that cool gaze glide over her, there wasn't a lot that escaped Regina Mills's attention.

The rest of the table was made up of decidedly more friendly faces. David, Mary Margaret, Killian, Henry, obviously. Joining their little clique for the night was Ruby,  _the traitor,_ her boyfriend Billy, and the married couple that lived downstairs, Aurora and Phillip, taking a rare night off from minding their newborn son.

"So how's the bail bonds business?" Phillip began, immediately setting the tone towards safe and boring territory. Emma relaxed into her seat, Henry on one side, David on the other. Safe and boring were better than the alternatives with this crowd.

* * *

Everything managed to be unexpectedly civilized through the first and second courses, if you counted absolute awkwardness as civilized.

Ruby spent an inordinate amount of time prodding Emma for details on Killian, who was sitting right across from her, ears perked. Unfortunately for her, Henry chose to share the coffee table story, which lead, as things inevitably did when Killian decided to take control of the conversation, to The Infamous Case of the Flying Monkey, and Emma's subsequent five minutes of fame.

She took some satisfaction from wiping the smile from his face when she revealed that Flying Monkey Guy had asked her out.

David and Phillip attempted to spark a manly conversation about football, which fell flat when Billy announced he was more into cars, and Killian made a disparaging comment about Americans and their dependency on protective padding.

Regina hadn't said much, except to comment on the wine ("pedestrian"), the state of the chicken ("serviceable"), and David's predictably plaid shirt ("Do you have one for every day of the week?").

Still, they were approaching the final hurdle, and no one had tried to stab anyone else. That had been the mission brief.

Emma still cornered Mary Margaret with another pep talk in the kitchen, before they brought out the dessert, just in case.

"Say it with me," she prodded in a low tone.

"Cute husband, cute loft, cute hats," Mary Margaret rattled them off.

"Remember," said Emma, bumping her hip with hers.

And it  _was_  all fine, until Aurora's first drop of wine in a year hit her bloodstream.

* * *

"I mean, I just don't see how they can get away with it!" Emma had trouble keeping track of the outrages. For a slight girl, Aurora certainly contained a number of extreme prejudices. Mothers who bottle-fed. Mothers who worked. Single mothers. With every new rant that slipped off that slurred tongue, Emma felt the knife twist a little deeper. Everyone was looking uncomfortable, even Phillip, with the possible exception of Regina, who was watching proceedings with the kind of rapt attention one usually reserves for their favorite reality show.

"They just shouldn't be mixing with the normal population! Who knows that they are capable of?" Who was she ranting about now? Blacks? Jews? Muslims? Oh no, convicts. Or ex-convicts, more accurately. Like the woman who'd been found out working in her local daycare. Like Emma. Maybe she could spend the rest of the evening in the bathroom. Surely Mary Margaret would understand.

"Okay, that's enough darling," said Killian, standing up and letting his dessert spoon clatter loudly in his bowl. "We get it. You hate every single person who doesn't measure up to your ridiculous standards. How about some water, now, to go with all that vitriol?"

"What are you so snippy about?" she retorted, cheeks flushing red at being reprimanded. "You put people in jail all the time!"

"You've just spent ten minutes describing his girlfriend to a T." Everyone turned to look at Regina, who'd spoken so quietly. Aurora's eyes bugged out of her head, turning towards Emma.

"What?"

"Single mother. Working mother. Convicted felon..." Regina let her words trail off.

Emma wasn't sure how Regina knew that. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She felt everyone else's eyes land on her at once. But she wasn't looking at them. She was looking at Henry. And he was looking at her. And then he winked, and all the rest just fell away.

"What?" Aurora repeated, louder this time.

"Charming group you've assembled here, dear," said Regina, turning to Mary Margaret at last. "Did you book the clown for the big finale?" Ruby barked out a laugh, startling Billy, who was in the middle of passing his bowl over to David, causing him to knock several things over in the process.

Which was how Emma found herself wearing a glass of Mary Margaret's carefully chosen Merlot.

"Great, just great." Emma pushed her chair back and examined her sweater. Ruined. Wearing white had been a mistake. It was always a mistake. For Henry's sake, and Mary Margaret's, she bit back the words that were on the tip of her tongue, settling for dabbing uselessly at the stain with her napkin. Billy made some apologetic motions, but Emma waved him away.

"I think we have some club soda in the refrigerator," David was up before anyone else could move.

"Was it behind the hummus?" Emma asked, when he returned. He gave her a level look, and handed her the can. She patted his shoulder in apology, before bounding from her chair, in search of a laundry room and an escape from the stares.

* * *

Emma found the communal laundry room for Mary Margaret and David's building in the basement, next to the boiler room. In the recent past, someone had thoughtfully decided to paint the walls a cheerful periwinkle blue, presumably so it would look a little less like a windowless dungeon. And to their credit, it kind of worked. But with the walls still slick with condensation from the bank of dryers, it did feel a lot like a sauna.

It was almost a relief for her peel off her sweater, throwing it into the over-sized sink and dousing it in club soda. It fizzled a bit, but there was still a lot of red in the stain. She tried washing it out with cold water. She had just lifted it up to examine the progress when she heard heavy boots descending down the last stairwell.

"You know, David, I think your club soda idea was a bust," she declared, dropping the sweater back into the sink and turning around.

But it wasn't David.

Killian stood in the doorway, clutching two open bottles of Bud between his fingers, a sheepish expression skirting his face, the other hand scratching at the back of his neck.

"Alright, Swan?" He stepped forward. "Bloody hell, it's rather tropical in here." He undid the third button on his shirt and fanned himself with his collar, revealing a gratuitous amount of chest hair in the process. Emma pretended not to notice.

"If you're down here, who is keeping the peace up there?" Emma asked, folding her hands over her chest, well aware her camisole was more than a little on the low cut and transparent side. Killian, for all of his talk about being a gentleman, noticed, one eyebrow raising, the beginnings of a smirk tracing his lips. At least he kept his mouth shut for once.

"Henry," he shrugged, setting the beers down to pull himself up to sit on top of one of the many tumble dryers banked up against the opposite wall.

"Henry!?" Maybe it wasn't too late to stage a rescue mission.

"Never fear. That stupid twit and her dull husband left early to get back to the baby. Ruby's given up on getting details out of me and has started devouring the face of her paramour. Mary Margaret and David are pretending there is nothing more interesting in the world than chocolate mudcake, and Henry is showing Regina all of the games he has on his new phone." Because of course Neal thought it was a good idea to give a ten year old a smartphone. A ten year old who'd dropped his last phone from a fifth floor fire escape. On purpose. Last week. "I've got to hand it to the lad, Angry Birds is probably the healthiest outlet she's ever had for all of that underlying hostility. They might even be..." he looked doubtful, "bonding."

"My little charmer," Emma smiled fondly, relaxing slightly. If anyone could win over someone as cold as Regina, it was Henry. And then she looked back at Killian, who was watching her as he took a pull from one of the bottles. It was almost unnerving, his focus. "And you've, what? Just come down here to see how badly I could fuck up saving my sweater?"

"Something like that." He smiled a lopsided smile, handing her a bottle. She clinked it with his, before taking a sip.

"I thought you didn't like American beer?"

"Utter swill," he agreed, taking another sip regardless. "David's beverage selection leaves something to be desired. But one makes do." He still made a face as the aftertaste hit. Emma decided that had been enough small-talk.

"You didn't need to defend me to Aurora. I mean, it was very sweet and fake boyfriendy, but I've dealt with a lot worse." Killian merely sighed, patting the white enamel beside him. He held her beer while she pulled herself up next to him, her boots dangling off the ground. She turned to him, so he'd see she was serious. "I don't  _need_  protecting."

"I know that, Swan," he said, passing her beer back. "I've  _seen_  you in action, I've watched you best many a villain more fearsome than Aurora in your time." He chuckled at that image, before taking a long swig from his beer. "But that doesn't mean you should expect that I'll just stand idly by, either. I don't know if you know this, Swan, but I don't much like seeing other people tear you down. Not when you're worth so much more than that. More than them." He didn't glance at her until he'd finished speaking, but Emma saw that he meant it. There was no lie there.

Emma wasn't going to pretend she wasn't moved. Wasn't going to pretend her heart wasn't pounding painfully in her chest with something that felt a lot like affection. Like a sledgehammer smashing against the wall she'd built to keep people like him out.

She leaned into his shoulder, her free hand reaching for his own, tracing the line of his fingers. She felt him shiver slightly, at her touch.

"This doesn't feel fake," she whispered into his shoulder, although there was no reason to whisper.

"Nope." He linked his fingers with hers.

"What's that about?" she asked, glancing up at him. His eyes were so goddamned blue, it wasn't fair.

"Well," Killian leaned closer. "You could be finally ready to admit that you find me to be devilishly handsome." Emma scoffed, but she didn't move away. "Are you sure about that?" he asked, his breath brushing her temple. "That thirsty look you gave me when I showed up on your doorstep for the first date said otherwise," he grinned.

"I did not give you a thirsty look!" Emma pulled back a little.

"Oh really? Because for a moment I genuinely thought you were going to eat me alive, Swan." He twisted his tongue between his teeth in a lascivious manner. "Like I might thoroughly enjoy the process, even." She disentangled herself from him enough so that she could smack him in the shoulder.

"You're not as irresistible as you think you are, Jones."

"Yes I am, Swan," he said, recapturing her hand. "Which is why it only took," he set down his beer so that he could dramatically count out the fingers on his other hand, "A whole  _one_  not-really fake date for you to break your no saliva-swapping rule."  _Well, he had her there._  "Just admit it, darling, you've quite the crush on me." He looked so awfully sure of himself.

"A crush? What am I, twelve?" Killian shrugged. And then Emma thought about what he'd just said. "Hang on, they  _weren't_  fake dates?"

"You think I take all of my pretend girlfriends to seafood restaurants and romantic starry vistas? Shame on you, Swan." Emma couldn't prevent the wide smile pulling at her lips.

"Killian Jones, do you have designs on me?"

"Designs? That sounds rather premeditated to me, love." Emma just shook her head mirthfully. "Plans? Likewise, a bit too calculated for my tastes. But hopes?" He glanced down at her with a soft smile. "Aye. Plenty where you're concerned."

She didn't know who moved first. It didn't matter. One second Killian Jones was looking at her like she hung the moon, the next she was drinking him in, every bit of him. The silky feel of his hair sliding through her fingers, the bitter taste of beer on his tongue, the warm grip of his hand on her hip. Her bottle of Bud, forgotten in her haste, keeled off the edge of the dryer and smashed onto the floor, but she barely noticed. Killian paused to assess the damage, and Emma took great pleasure in dragging his lips back to hers.

It could wait.

He broke away first, sucking in a lungful of air, his forehead still flush with Emma's.

"So does this mean you  _do_ have a crush on me, Swan?" He asked, far too shyly for a man who could kiss like that.

"What do you think?" Emma asked, grazing his nose with hers.

"Ahem," came a familiar voice from behind her.

Emma stilled, her first instinct to flee. And she would've, had Killian's hand on her hip not kept her in place. He brushed a sweaty strand of hair out of her face with the other hand, offering a reassuring smile before looking over her shoulder at the intruder.

"Mate?" He asked, his tone implying David was interrupting, as if he couldn't already tell.

"I, uh, came to drop off one of Mary Margaret's sweaters for Emma to wear. And I'm leaving it, right here, on the table," she heard his boots shuffling backwards on the concrete floor, "And now I'm going to go upstairs and pretend I never came down here." They both waited until the sound of his boots on the stairs disappeared before dropping their guard.

"Those Nolans certainly know how to hit a cue," Killian chuckled, as Emma buried herself in his chest, her cheeks aflame.

"At this rate, I'm never going to be able to look either of them in the eye ever again, am I?" she moaned.

"Not if I have anything to say about it, Swan," he grinned, tilting her chin up for another kiss.

"Easy tiger," Emma said, pausing a hair's breadth from his lips. "We have to be getting back."

"Aye, and we will," he breathed, eyes glinting mischievously. "But not just yet," he said, closing the distance between them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Are you asleep, Swan? KJ  
**

**Yes. Yes, I am. Look at me typing and sleeping at the same time. So talented. I should be in the circus. ES**

**Aye. Stupid question. Something keeping you awake, perchance, love? KJ**

**You mean apart from my phone buzzing on the nightstand every few minutes courtesy of one incorrigible Irishman? ES**

**Anything else about this incorrigible Irishman keeping you awake? KJ**

**Incorrigible is right. ES**

**;-) Sleep well, Swan. Dream of me. KJ**

**You wish. 'Night Killian. ES**

Okay, so maybe she did have a crush.

A little flutter of  _something_ in the pit of her stomach with every chime of her phone in the dark.

But Emma Swan wasn't some lovesick schoolgirl. She'd never been one, and she wasn't going to start now. She wasn't going to let the thought of Killian Jones and his blue, blue eyes, languorous kisses and secret smiles keep her up nights.

Nope. No way.

And if Henry was surprised by the breakfast spread awaiting him the next morning, blueberry pancakes and cocoa with cinnamon all before 9am, he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. And if he noticed the dark circles under his mother's eyes, he was too busy trying to shovel as much pancake into his mouth as possible to say anything.

But when he opened the door to the apartment, and found a solitary red rose sitting in an empty bottle of Budweiser beside the morning paper, he couldn't quite stifle his eye roll when he came back to the table, both in hand.

"Your boyfriend left you this," he said, putting the bottle down on the table, not pausing in his demolition of the paper in search of the comics.

 _Boyfriend?_ Is that what he was? Two kind-of fake dates, and make out session in a laundry room and suddenly they were official? She reached out to twirl the bottle between her fingers, the significance of it not lost on her.

"Are you mad at him?" Her son's inquisitive voice cut through the internal musings.

"What? Why would you think that?"

He lowered the newspaper and rolled his eyes again, like it should be obvious. "Because he got you flowers. Dad only gets flowers for Tamara when she's mad at him. Did Killian make you mad?" His chest was puffing up, like he was getting ready to be mad on her behalf. What a kid.

Emma wasn't quite sure what it said about his upbringing that Henry associated flowers with anger. Probably nothing too flattering. She'd have to work on that. Maybe talk to Neal.

"Not everyone sends flowers to say sorry." Henry looked doubtful. "I think he was just trying to be nice. To say thank you for the table."

"Oh." A dawning realization crept across his features. "That's why it was out on the landing? Like the table?"

"Exactly." Emma leaned forward to inhale the scent, closing her eyes as she breathed it in. Gorgeous. "Want to smell?" she asked, pushing the bottle across the table towards him.

Henry snorted a no, as if the very idea offended him. "Everyone knows that flowers are for girls."

"Want to know a secret?" Emma whispered, raising an eyebrow. Henry took the bait, leaning in a little to hear her. "That's just something girls made up so that we wouldn't have to share them with boys. But actually? They're for everyone. And they smell really nice." She pushed the bottle even closer to him. Henry, unamused at being drawn in, just shook his head, and went to watch cartoons. Emma's phone buzzed on the table.

**Did you see the front page of Globe this morning, Swan? KJ**

Emma smiled at that.

**Way subtle, Casanova. ES**

**I have no idea what you mean. Marty Walsh's relapse is quite tragic. KJ**

**Thank you, Killian. ES**

**You are very welcome, love. Although I'd maybe angle for a new doorman. One without chronic fatigue syndrome. I set off the external alarm and he didn't even blink. KJ**

He wasn't a doorman so much as the guy hired to patrol the apartment complexes on their street. In the six months since he'd been hired, Emma had never seen him conscious. Henry called him Sleepy, after the dwarf. On reflection, it really wasn't a good trait in a security professional.

**Henry thought they might be apology flowers. ES**

**For which sin does he imagine I am repenting? KJ**

**None that I know of. But his own experience of flowers has apparently been mainly limited to apology flowers. ES**

**From your countless unworthy suitors, no doubt? KJ**

As _if_ Emma had given any of her old dates her home address.

**Ha. No. Apparently Neal is King of Apology Flowers with Tamara. ES**

**I see. And the lad is similarly not a romantic at heart? KJ**

**He thinks flowers are for girls. ES**

**My florist will be devastated to hear it.**   **A whole lifetime's work down the drain... KJ**

**"Your" florist? You have such a need for flowers as to have a designated flower guy on standby? ES  
**

**His name is Moe. And is that jealousy I detect, Swan? KJ**

Emma snorted, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

**Does that seem likely? ES**

**A man can hope. KJ**

_Definitely_  incorrigible. _  
_

* * *

Come Monday morning, Emma's customary first-thing dash to the coffee pot was interrupted when she finally paused, taking in her surroundings.

She whirled around. "Did you do this?"

"Do what?" Mary Margaret asked distractedly, peering up from her monitor.

Emma held her hands out wide to take in the gleaming windows, the dusted sideboards, the highlighters meticulously arranged on Mary Margaret's desk by hue.

"Oh." She flushed, looking around, as if she hadn't noticed the unusual sheen the place had taken on until that very moment. "Yeah."

"Did you hide out here all weekend?"

"Not  _all_ weekend..." Mary Margaret frowned.

"Have you not heard of going to see a movie?" The frown deepened. "...marathon," Emma amended.

"I did  _try_ to stick it out. I really did! But having her in the loft the whole weekend..." Mary Margaret gave an involuntary shudder. "It wasn't even anything she said. It was just the idea of her in my space..." Emma thought back to the way Regina had seemed to analyze and evaluate the full sum of her life's achievements and failures to date with one unimpressed look. Yeah. No one wants that directed at them. "She seemed to really like Henry, though." Mary Margaret said, brightening. "She wanted to know if you'd mind if she took him out for ice cream the next time she's in town."

"Really?" But before Emma could ponder too much on her son's apparent universal popularity, the front door swung open again.

"Dear gods woman, what have you done?" Killian paused in the doorway to examine the scene. "It looks like an obsessive-compulsive and a spray bottle made love in here." Mary Margaret turned in her chair to give him her best unimpressed eyebrow raise, and Emma turned back to the coffee machine, hiding her smile.

"Am I the only one here who is concerned by the fact that our working environment now smells like a suspiciously clean pine forest?"

"Yes," said Mary Margaret pointedly, typing out her next sentence with a little extra authority. His cause lost, with no David around to back him up, Killian stalked off to their office.

Emma set about searching their tiny kitchenette for her favorite red mug, the one with the "Who Needs Sleep When There's Coffee?" writing on the side. It was dumb, but Henry had given it to her, so she liked it. She finally found it in the top cupboard, the one she had to really reach for. Why someone had put it there was beyond her. Unless the point had been to torture her. Actually scrap that, she knew exactly who had put it there, and why. She almost dropped it when the office phone rang, startling her over-tired nerves. She did a quick look around, to see if anyone had caught her clumsy moment, out of habit. Killian stood leaning in the doorway to their office, having apparently seen the whole thing.  _Of course he had._ Emma tried to ignore his eyes on her as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

"You look tired, Swan." He took a step towards her, hands in his jean pockets, a smug smile stretching across his lips. "Trouble sleeping, perhaps?"  _He was such a cocky son of a bitch.  
_

"Not at all," said Emma, raising her mug to her lips in defiance. Some of her gesture was probably lost in that one motion, considering the slogan branded on the side of the mug.  _Goddamn irony._

Killian grinned wider, but was interrupted from his next smug remark by Mary Margaret slamming the phone down and turning to them.

"You guys like dogs, right?"

* * *

"Okay, remind me, why are we looking for a skip in Yuppie Central again?" Emma asked, taking another sip from her Venti Americano, and pulling Killian out of view of a lusty-eyed pack of Real Housewives. They were in enemy territory now, and Emma did not like it.

"You know the drill, darling. We go where he goes. Archie Hopper shops at Barneys. We shop at Barneys." His grimace let her know he had the same feelings about upmarket department stores that she did. They were standing in the atrium of Copley Place near the waterfall, feeling every bit of their underprivileged upbringings, ostensibly working on their plan of attack.

"And how the hell did he get a Dalmatian in here?"

Said Dalmatian, unoriginally named Pongo, was front and center of this case. Archie Hopper was a somewhat famed psychiatrist in the Boston area. He was probably writing Xanax prescriptions for half of the Financial District, at $200 an hour. But even all that money couldn't stop him having to face up to the law when he allegedly set his beloved pooch on his neighbor, with whom he was engaged in a long-standing property dispute over a fence. The guy ended up in hospital with some rather serious injuries.

Some people use knives, or guns to get back at the people they hate. Archie Hopper was accused of Using a Dog as A Deadly Weapon. It certainly was creative.

Somehow he'd managed to stop the authorities from taking Pongo away, pending the court's decision. But when it came time to face the music, he hadn't shown. And now Emma and Killian were chasing after him and his canine companion somewhere with marble floors.

"He's a therapy dog." He shrugged. "No one would be stupid enough to refuse him in a place like this, and risk being sued. Or worse, losing their commissions. All he needs is a signed letter from his psychiatrist."

"The psychiatrist has a psychiatrist?"

Killian shrugged again. "Apparently so."

"And what kind of therapy?"

"That, my dear, is confidential. But rumor has it the dog helps with his PTSD, after one of his clients attacked him in his office after he refused them a prescription. Of course, the rumor also states it wasn't a companion he was looking for so much as a 24/7 bodyguard."

_Great._

And because Archie Hopper took his malicious pet everywhere with him, including while shopping for overpriced sweaters, it presented a real challenge on how they were going to get close enough to cuff him. Emma had seen the photos of the neighbor's face after Pongo was through with it. It wasn't pretty. She didn't want to be next on the menu.

"Any bright ideas, then? Most of mine involve a milk bone or a blowdart." Emma cursed this mall, too upmarket for a pet shop.

"Some," Killian responded vaguely, surveying the milling shoppers. "And they shan't require a blowdart. Maybe some play acting and false enthusiasm on your part." He paused in his scanning to gauge her reaction. "What do you think?"

_Hell, what did she have to lose?_

* * *

Looking at some of the price tags on this stuff, Emma found herself reconsidering her choice of career. Maybe chasing down soon-to-be felons wasn't for her. Maybe psychiatry would be more up her street. She and Killian were treading the gilded aisles of Neiman Marcus, their quarry examining cufflinks a few aisles over, furry companion in tow.

Emma, in turn, was playing her part, holding up an array of very, very expensive jackets up to Killian's torso, as if they were actually going to be buying them. A lanky young man in horn-rimmed glasses and Prada shoes strode towards them, his eyes practically filling with dollar signs at the sight of them. Clearly he hadn't been at this very long, they weren't wearing a stitch of designer-wear between them.

Before he could approach them, they spotted Hopper ducking into the change rooms. A confined space with only one exit. Perfect.

"Is there any way I can be of assistance today?" He looked them both up and down eagerly, but the way he lingered on Killian made Emma pretty sure she wasn't going to be his type. Emma wrapped an arm around Killian's waist in a proprietary way, speaking first.

"Oh, great! We've been invited to a wedding, and my boyfriend here," she noticed the boy's face fall slightly at that, "left all of his good jackets in LA. We were hoping we could find something suitable here, if you have any recommendations?"

Given free reign, the boy's enthusiasm returned, sizing Killian up with a look, he began picking things off racks at random, and shoving them into Emma's arms.

"Boyfriend?" Killian whispered in her ear, while the boy was distractedly trying to divest a mannequin of a suitable jacket. Emma just gave him a sideways look, before reaching her hand out automatically to accept the newest garment.

When Emma couldn't physically carry any more jackets, their plucky assistant bundled them into the changing rooms, to make their final selections.

"He's gonna cry when he realizes we aren't gonna buy anything." Emma whispered, counting the occupied stalls. Killian's eyes flashed, and he pulled a credit card from his pocket.

"Even when someone forgot to return the company card?" He asked, fanning himself with it.

The company card was reserved for essential travel and accommodation for out-of-town jobs. David rarely handed it over, and he was always grouchy after he got the bill, mumbling obscenities under his breath about 7/11 trips and raided mini bars.

"He will  _murder_ you." Emma fought to keep her voice low.

"You're no fun." Killian reluctantly slipped the card back into his pocket, taking the armful of jackets from her. "Now, you know what to do, Swan?"

She nodded, and pushed him into a stall, drawing the curtain between them.

"Hurry up, honey!" She called in a louder voice. "I have a mani-pedi booked for 3 o'clock!" Actually, she had to pick up Henry from school at 3 o' clock, but she thought that this woman wouldn't. This woman was dating a promising young TV executive from LA. She skied in Aspen. She had mani-pedis. She wouldn't be skulking around a department store changing room with a pair of handcuffs and a can of mace. Or so she hoped Archie Hopper would believe.

Only two other stalls apart from Killian's were currently in use. Emma pulled out her phone, and pretended to be browsing on it while she paced the corridor, playing at being the impatient girlfriend, while actually checking for the tell-tale signs of canine presence.

The one of the left was emitting far too many whining sounds to be someone squeezing into a pair of skinny jeans, and ding ding ding, they had a winner. Now, to get through the rest without getting her face bitten off.

She returned to Killian's stall, and drew back the curtain. If she'd been expecting him to be standing there in readiness, she had apparently overestimated his commitment to the cause.

"What do you think, Swan?" Emma swallowed audibly. There are jackets. And then there are  _jackets_. And the one that was currently hugging Killian's frame was... She wanted to climb him like a tree. It wasn't rational, but there it was.

"I... I think that's a $3000 jacket." She replied, stumbling on her words.

"Aye, but don't I look dashing?" He asked, taking a step forward and gracing her with a wolfish grin. That was one word for it. He was too close now. Emma couldn't think properly.

"The uh... he's on the left, the second along." She barely remembered to keep her voice low.

"Your left or my left?" His quiet words were all business, but his eyes never left her lips.

"Mine."

"Ready, Swan?" She nodded automatically, handing him her bottle of mace. He placed a hand on her shoulder, meeting her eyes again. "Watch your face, darling." He turned to pull away, and Emma grabbed him by the elbow to stop him.

"Hmm?" She reached down into his jeans pocket and pulled out the credit card, while he watched with quiet fascination.

"Keep the tags on. We'll return it later," she said, her voice strangely hoarse. "And watch your own face, Jones." She gave him a quick peck on the lips, and stepped backwards to shut the curtain again.

With a few jaunty steps, Emma returned to Archie Hopper's stall, pulled out her handcuffs, and threw open the curtain.

"Archie Hopper, you've missed your court appearance, and I'm here to make sure you reschedule."

This could have been worse for Archie Hopper. He could have been caught in his tighty-whities. Instead all he had was a cashmere sweater stuck over his head. He turned stupidly at the sound of her voice, but he couldn't see her. The dog was on the floor, observing her with apparent interest, but he wasn't lunging, and that was good news. Emma patiently waited for her quarry to free himself from the sweater.

"What the hell? Who are you?"

"I'm the one that profits handsomely when idiots like you skip bail. If you'd be so kind as to come with me?" She motioned at her handcuffs, swinging from one finger.

Archie's face twisted then, into something less than pleasant. Something you'd see on the face of a guy who tried to kill his neighbor with his dog.

"Pongo!" The dog leapt to attention, eyes trained on Emma.  _Oh shit. There goes the face._

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, mate," came a voice from above them. All three of them looked up to see Killian sitting on the top of the stall, mace can pointed directly at Archie. "Or I'll spray you, and your little dog too. And I'm not sure this stuff is good for dogs. But we can find out together, if you like." Archie didn't say another word.

When they all emerged from the change rooms, Emma leading Pongo, Killian leading Archie, their young assistant nearly had a conniption. He looked torn between wanting to run and tell a manager, and clearly enjoying watching Killian with his knee in Hopper's back, handcuffing his wrists together.

"Relax," Emma said, placing the credit card on the counter in front of him. "We'll take the jacket."


	14. Chapter 14

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" David asked, dropping a stack of files on Emma's desk.

"Have any better ideas?" Emma replied, barely glancing up from her laptop screen.

"We could ask him to his face?" Emma rolled her eyes at David's reluctance.

"Oh, c'mon! This is  _not_  an invasion of privacy. Everything here is a matter of public record. And you know for a fact that there isn't a speck of dirt on  _either_  of us he hasn't already uncovered. He knows more about my criminal record than  _I_  do! This is just what we do."

"You two have a very strange relationship," David murmured, taking a seat at Killian's desk.

Emma couldn't deny that.

Today Killian was in Providence, chasing down a skip who was rumored to be hunkering down at his Aunt's house. Which meant he wasn't there to prevent Emma from scouring through his past to find the person who had brought August Booth into their lives.

Emma's contact at the second-hand book store had come through with the goods. Or some goods, at least. They managed to trace the book down to a specialty vanity press in San Diego. The same city Killian had called home before his abrupt departure to Boston five years earlier. Which meant that "interested parties" probably dated back to that part of his life. A part that Emma still wasn't all that clear on.

A call to the publisher had revealed that the order for the book had been placed six months ago, for cash, under the name of August Booth. The sole point of contact had been a PO Box in Oceanside, also rented with cash, under that name.

This had been a long time in the planning, and it hadn't been cheap.

And there was only one person Emma knew to talk to, who had known Killian in California.

* * *

"Does the Captain know you're here?" William asked, as Emma took a seat at the bar beside him.

A creature of habit, William Smee wasn't exactly hard to find on this day off. He could be found exactly where he spent almost all of spare hours, holding up the bar in his neighborhood dive, a charming little place that didn't quite live up to the majesty of its name, The Rose & Crown. Emma slapped a twenty down on the bar and indicated to the bartender to keep his beers coming.

"If he didn't, he will when you call him as soon as I leave, won't he?" Emma replied archly. William chuckled into his beer.

"You really are his type, aren't you?" he said, wiping froth from his beard with his sleeve.

"His type?" Emma turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Tenacious."

"Is that something that she was?" Emma hadn't meant to ask that, and when William's eyes met hers, she regretted it.

"Is that why you're here? To ask about  _her_?" The way his eyes narrowed, Emma didn't think there had been any love lost between them.

"Not exactly." She tried to think of what she  _did_ want to ask.

"You know Captain is just a nickname, right?" William asked, disrupting her train of thought. "He never made the rank." Emma had wondered about that, going through his military record. Everything she'd read had indicated he'd only reached Lieutenant. "But we all thought it was only a matter of time. He was more ambitious than the rest of us. Real leadership material. Until  _she_ came along."

"Not a fan, huh?"

"Don't get me wrong. I  _do_  think she cared about him. Maybe even as much as he cared for her. But I don't think she considered for one minute what it might cost him."

"Like his career?"

"It was more than a career to him! He didn't have a family to get back to. People waiting for him. The navy was his life."

He allowed his eyes to travel the length of her, and it felt less like he was checking her out, and more like he was wondering if she was going to be the next person to fuck up all of his friend's dreams and ambitions. No pressure or anything.

"And for you?"

He shrugged. "I liked it well enough. But I got out eventually, went to work for my cousin up here, fixing boats, doing some security work on the side. I don't worry so much about torpedoes now."

"Did you keep in touch with Killian when he left?" He rolled his eyes.

"Obviously." Emma smiled. William looked fairly harmless, with his beer gut and beanie, but there was more going on behind the surface than she'd originally thought. Exactly the kind of friend Killian would keep.

"Was there anyone in California who might wish Killian harm?"

"You mean  _apart_ from Robert Gold, right?"

"Robert Gold?" He looked at her like she was an idiot.

"The husband?" He said, real slow.

" _Robert Gold_ was the husband? As it  _State Senator Gold?_ Killian slept with the wife of a  _State Senator_?!" Of all of the stupid, idiotic...

"Didn't mention that part, huh?"

Emma thought back to Killian's descriptions of the husband. "Influential" he had called him. "Connected."

_No fucking kidding._

William sighed, and pushed his next beer across the bar towards her. Emma glanced back at him in surprise.

"You look like you need it more than me."

* * *

When she eventually stumbled out of The Rose & Crown, way past her self-imposed deadline, and more inebriated than she ought to be mid-afternoon, she sat down at a bus shelter to wait the requisite five minutes for her phone to ring. It took three.

"Checking up on me, Swan?" He didn't sound pissed off. Yet. She played it blasé.

"I had some time on my hands. One of us didn't land a skip today."

"So you thought you'd take it upon yourself to pry into my history?"

"Is this you being mad at me?"

A pause. "I'm thinking of it."

Time to bring out the list she'd rehearsed over the last few hours.

"Three things. Firstly, I'm not hiding this from you. If I were, you wouldn't know about it."

"And that's such a comfort."

"Secondly, I  _know_  you got your hands on my juvie records. The ones that were sealed by the courts when I turned 18? So there's no need to feign outrage on my account. This is just quid pro quo."

"And the third thing, darling?" She couldn't even see him, but she knew he was clenching his jaw anyway.

"You asked for me look into this. Remember?"

Another pause. "Aye. So I did. So don't keep me in suspense. Learn anything interesting about me, Swan?"

"The wife of a State Senator? Really?!"

Surely he had to be expecting that one.

He let out a loud sigh. One she probably would have heard across the 50 miles between them, even without the phone pressed to her ear.

"Would it help my cause if I admit I was ignorant as to the existence of any husband, prominent or no, until it was already too late?" Not likely.

"So you're still sure he isn't the one behind all this?" Emma heard him let out a breath.

"The man has the resources, but not the motive. I'm out of his life. Just like he wanted. He wouldn't risk antagonizing me now, lest I jeopardize his rumored run for Governor."

Governor.  _God_. He really did have a talent for trouble. Emma had made a lot of enemies over the years, but even she knew better than to piss off a politician.

"Pray tell, what other secrets of my misspent youth did you get William to spill, Swan?" William had been a wealth of information after his fifth beer.

"Do you really play guitar?"

Killian laughed over the line. "Good to know your interrogation stayed on track, love. Aye, I dabbled a bit." She wanted to see that.

"And the tattoo?" William had intimated that it had been in a... sensitive area.

"Removed," Killian replied gruffly. It was Emma's turn to snicker.

"So, any luck finding Will Scarlet?"

Will Scarlet, Killian's skip du jour, hadn't come by their attention in the usual way. He was a small-time thief, who'd used David's services to bail himself out before. He'd been a bitch of a guy to run down. Crafty. Fearless. Killian had found him before, and he'd gone to prison for a little while. When he'd next come to the attention of the authorities, they'd been stupid enough to grant bail again, albeit at a higher price. David hadn't been stupid enough to lend him the cash.

But a competitor had. And when his own guys had come back empty handed, they'd sold the debt over to David, who knew he could find him. Or that Killian could, anyway.

"He's just as wily as I remember. Plus a good twenty pounds of muscle gained in the exercise yard. It might take a few days." A few days. During which Emma would have to carry her own unconscious skips. Get her own coffee. Eat her own Twizzlers. It was scary how much she wasn't looking forward to the prospect.

"Bring me back something shiny?"

"And what would a woman as practical as you do with something shiny?"

"Shine it in your eyes, probably. Or David's. I'm not picky." Emma shrugged, even though he couldn't see.

"I'll see what I can do, Swan."

* * *

Her Bug still parked across the street, and her head still swimming with her afternoon beers, Emma elected to walk down to the nearest Starbucks, to sober up.

It was the alcohol in her system that she blamed, along with her preoccupation with her truly enormous slice of pie, for failing to recognize the man immediately when he slipped into the booth opposite. Expecting a student, hungry for her free power outlet, Emma wasn't immediately on the defensive. Until she glanced up, to see August sitting across from her with his usual amused smile.

Otherwise devoid of weapons, Emma made a hasty grab for her fork.

"Whoa." Said August, shifting back and raising his hands in surrender. "No need to bring out the cutlery. I come in peace."

"Peace?" Emma wasn't convinced. Moreover, everything she wanted to know, August knew the answers to. If he felt threatened, so be it.

"Is that any way to treat the man who saved your life?"

"You already got a free pass for that." Emma gritted her teeth. "You don't get another one."

"You're a real ball-buster, you know that? You don't really want to stick that fork in me."

"Oh, really?" Emma absolutely did.

"Harming me might put the agreement I have with your boyfriend in jeopardy..." he trailed off. He could be bluffing. Was probably bluffing. But there was only one way to know.

"Agreement?" The return of his smile let Emma know he could feel the balance of power shifting back to his side. Shit.

"The one where I stay away from you and your son. Henry, is it?" Emma clutched the fork tighter in her hand.

"Great job you're doing there, staying away. I'm really feeling the distance."

"Consider this a parting gift. You forgot to ask what I got in exchange."

Emma rolled her eyes. "What did you get in exchange?"

"Why, Jones agreed to a meeting with my employer, of course."

"He  _knows_ who your employer is?"

"For at least a week now. So there really is no point you continuing your pithy investigation into my origins. I guarantee you, you're wasting your time."

He was bluffing. Had to be. He just wanted Emma to back off. Maybe she was getting too close. There was no way that Killian had known for a week. Last week had been Regina's visit. The dinner party.

The one Killian had shown up late for.

The guy who was never late.

August saw the moment the seed of doubt planted itself in her eyes, and grinned wider.

"Believe me now?"


	15. Chapter 15

Emma had just let Henry win another round of Words With Friends when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. She hurried to jam her phone back into her jeans pocket, and straightened her spine. Killian emerged from the stairwell a few moments later carrying a beaten-up duffel bag, almost doing a double take when he saw Emma leaning on the green-patterned wallpaper beside his apartment door.

He was just as handsome as she remembered. Sometimes she forgot exactly how much. Dark circles under his eyes, his hair unwashed and sticking out in every direction, his usually carefully trimmed beard a little on the scruffy side. Will Scarlet had clearly led him on a merry dance the past couple days. But now he was back, and he was still the same handsome, blue-eyed bastard.

"Gods, you're a sight for sore eyes." He dropped the duffel on the landing, and closed the distance between them in a few steps. "Much better than a coffee table," he murmured, reaching up a hand to cup her face. But before he could lean forward and capture her lips, Emma sidestepped him, taking an extra step back.

Killian dropped his hand back to his side and stepped back himself, his tired mind whirring. His eyes were trained on Emma's face, searching for whatever he had clearly missed.

"So I'm guessing from your bearing that you're not here because you missed me?" He said slowly, stepping back again, until his heels made contact with his bag. "And you've no champagne, so nor did you come to toast my daring capture of the gentleman thief. Which is a pity. It is a thrilling tale, full of intrigue and ingenuity." Emma's face remained scarily blank. "But I see that would be of little interest to you at the present time. So what exactly are you doing here, Swan?"

Emma twisted around to remove the bag she had slung from her shoulders, reaching inside to pull out a large, heavy book. August's book. The gold embossed lettering glittered in the light of the hallway sconces. Then she removed the leather jacket she had been wearing. Killian's jacket. She laid it out on the ground beside the door, and placed the book on top of it.

"I'm returning a few things." She was struggling to keep her voice even, slinging her bag back over her shoulders.

"Emma, what are you-" Killian made to step forward, but the warning look in Emma's eyes made him pause mid-step.

"August came to see me. Three guesses as to what he might have told me?"

Killian's eyes narrowed, and he let out a curse under his breath.

"He was supposed to stay away from you," he said through clenched teeth.

Emma felt her heart plummet into her stomach. So it wasn't a bluff. August had been telling the truth after all. That made a change.

"Well apparently he sucks at taking orders." Emma could feel herself losing the last of her cool. "He decided he'd leave me his idea of fitting parting gift. The knowledge that I was busy chasing down someone for you that you already knew the identity of."

"Did he tell you who?" Killian took a step forward, his eyes intent on Emma.  _That's_ what what he was focusing on right now?

"His mysterious employer?" Emma barked out an ugly laugh. "No. And why would he? It's the only thing about him that makes him more interesting than every other stupid guy out there in skinny jeans. Besides, it's enough that  _you_ know." She looked at him, and he looked right back.

He wasn't denying it. Because it was the truth. He  _did_ know. And god, did that hurt.

"And you didn't keep searching August's motel room from me?" Apparently Killian's best defense was a good offense. No wonder the Irish sucked at sports.

"Yes, but I  _told_ you about that. No one made me tell you. I  _chose_ to. You had me running in circles for over a week, chasing someone you had already found. What was the point of that?" Emma couldn't stop her voice from raising in the confined space.

"Will you come inside, and we can talk about it?" He'd changed tactics, resigned to talking to her like she was a skittish mare. Arms by his sides. Voice calm.

Inside meant sitting on Killian's couch, looking at the coffee table she'd given him, the whole apartment smelling like him. She shook her head.

"No. Here's fine." He ran a nervous hand through his unruly hair.

"Will you sit down, at least?" he motioned to the top step. Reluctantly, she did so. She regretted it as soon as she did. He sat down beside her and he was far too close, their boots overlapping on the third stair, before she moved them away. The scar on his cheek was more noticeable in the low light, another reminder of all she didn't know about Killian Jones.

"How long have you known?" She wanted to know exactly how long she'd been playing the fool.

"For certain? Since the day of the party. I left a message on August's voicemail, asking to meet with him. We met that afternoon, in a cafe downtown. I had my own suspicions about his employer, and he confirmed them. I asked what they wanted. What it would take to get them off my back. Away from you and Henry. And he said all they wanted was a meeting. And I agreed."

"I  _was_  going to tell you," he insisted, and Emma couldn't prevent the eye roll. "But I know what you're like, Swan. You wouldn't have just given up just because I told you to."

"Because I'm tenacious?" Emma practically spat the words. It had almost seemed like a compliment, coming from William's mouth. Not so much anymore.

"Yes!"

"And telling me the truth was, what? Too much trouble?"

"After that little discussion about how you don't need protecting, did you really think that was the best time?"

"I  _don't_  need protecting. Why did you make that stupid bargain anyway?"

"Maybe I just wanted to keep you out of the firing line?"

"I was  _in_ the firing line from the very first. What changed?"

"What changed? Are you kidding me?!"

"You're being deliberately vague."

"And you're being deliberately obtuse!"

They were standing now. Emma didn't even know when that had happened. She was very conscious of her breathing. And his. Short, shallow breaths. He was way too close.

"I promised you Henry wouldn't get hurt by any connection of ours. And I meant it. And if that meant getting August to back off, then so be it." That gave Emma pause.

"Why does he need protecting? Who are you protecting him from?"

He hesitated. "I... can't tell you that."

"What the  _hell_  does that mean? If someone wants to hurt my son-"

"No," Killian interrupted her before she could start with the creative threats. "No, Emma, it's just a precaution. He's fine."

"But you're still not going to tell me, are you?"

"Because you've been so bloody forthcoming with your own history?" There was that offense tactic again.

"What are you talking about? You've read everything there is to know about me!"

"No, I've read files on you. A person's life isn't just made up of paper trails and legal documentation, Emma. It's made up of what they think. How they feel."

"Is that it? You want to know what I'm feeling? What I think?" She could practically hear her heart beating in her ears. "I think there is a lot you're not telling me. A lot that has you worried. But you won't talk to me. Or let me help. And you know what? It feels a lot like  _you_ don't trust  _me._ "

"Gods, woman, will you just do as I ask for once in your life, and let this alone?"

"Will you tell me why?"

"You  _know_ why."

"To protect me? Or Henry? You really think I'm going to buy that?"

"Please, Emma." It was a genuine plea. The sort Killian had never debased himself to give before. Never thought he would.

"Fine! You don't need me? I'm leaving. And I'm washing my hands of the whole August debacle. Our entire stupid fucking agreement." She kicked the book on the ground for good measure. "But don't pretend for a second you're doing this to protect me. You're not. But maybe you should ask yourself, who is going to be around to protect Killian fucking Jones?"

She sidestepped his half-hearted attempt at blocking her exit, ignoring the look on his face. She'd be happy if she lived her whole life without ever seeing that particular look ever again. Like she was breaking his heart. As if she could. And if she woke his downstairs neighbors with her march down the stairs, her determined slam of the front door, well, she couldn't care less.

* * *

Emma called in sick the next day. Not for one second did she think Mary Margaret fell for her put-on "sick" voice, but she didn't really care. She felt lousy. She had sick days owing. That was that.

There was no way she could see Killian today.

What were they going to do? Cruise around in his Charger, chasing down bad guys and swapping flirty banter between mouthfuls of junk food, pretending everything was great and dandy? There was no fucking way.

Not when he was clearly in the middle of something. Something he wouldn't even tell her about.

And sure, maybe she might have gotten why he wouldn't trust her before. It's not like Emma had ever been one for sharing. Or feelings. Or any of that. But they were  _partners._ He showed up when she needed him, and she did the same for him. That's how it worked. That's how it was  _supposed_  to work.

She'd kidded herself for a long time that it was just a work thing. But she knew it wasn't. Even now, after he'd lied to her, she still knew she could count on him. Knew he'd show up in a heartbeat if she asked. So the fact that he didn't trust her to do the same, hurt.

Emma was almost too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice Henry standing in the doorway to her bedroom, looking at her with clear concern. He was already wearing his backpack.

"Oh, is your carpool here?" she asked, sitting up on her bed. Occasionally, Henry grabbed a lift to school with another kid who lived in their building. Emma had called his parents first thing, when it became apparent that leaving the apartment wasn't going to be happening today. He shook his head.

"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping forward to feel her forehead like she did when he wasn't feeling well.

"Just a little under the weather, kid. Nothing to worry about." She reached a hand up to ruffle his hair.

"Are you sure?" He scanned her face from under his eyelashes. Neal's eyelashes.

"Sure I'm sure." He didn't look entirely convinced, but he let it go.

He pulled his other hand from behind his back, to reveal the morning newspaper, and a small package, wrapped in newspaper.

"What is this?" Emma asked, reaching over to take them from him.

"I brought the paper for you. Because you forgot. The package was right next to it."

"On the landing?" Emma asked, a sinking feeling in her gut.

"Yeah," said Henry, distractedly. "What is it?" He reached over to pull at the wrapping, before Emma could move it out of his grasp.

They both looked down to where the wrapping had torn.

"What is that?" Henry asked, as Emma pulled off the rest of the newspaper.

It was a ceramic snow globe. There was a lighthouse inside it, set on a rocky landscape. The words  _Providence, RI_  were printed along the side, and Emma traced them with her fingers. She shook it, watching the glitter pieces swirl through the water, obscuring the lighthouse in a dazzling blizzard.

"Something shiny," she said.


	16. Chapter 16

Emma was so not a summer dress person.

She was quickly realizing that there were a lot of unspoken laws about what you could and could not wear to a wedding. No black, no white, nothing too low cut or too short or too tight or too casual. Anything with which you might possibly overshadow the bride was very, very bad. One look at her wardrobe and Emma knew she was in trouble. There was barely more than a week until the wedding, and if frumpy pastels were the way to go, she was out of options.

So she'd reluctantly called Mary Margaret, who knew about things like dressing appropriately, and not making an idiot of oneself in front of strangers. And now here they were, in one of the many vintage clothing stores Mary Margaret liked to frequent, shopping for a summer dress. In October. When it hadn't risen above 50 degrees all week.

"Are you sure I can't just wear black?" Emma asked, reaching for a beaded dress with capped sleeves. They'd been at this all morning, and they were getting nowhere. Mary Margaret batted her hands away from the offending garment.

"No black," she said, wagging a finger. "Unless you  _want_ to look like you're attending a funeral?" She had a point. It didn't really send the right message. Tamara's family were already going to be keeping a close eye on the unaccompanied ex. No need to further exacerbate their concerns.

Mary Margaret face brightened, pulling out a dress from the rack behind Emma, and presenting it to her with a flourish.

Emma wasn't as impressed. "It's  _yellow_."

"I thought you liked yellow?" Mary Margaret asked, furrowing a brow. "The Bug is yellow."

"I  _do_  like yellow. But not  _on_  me." She held the dress against her and made a face. Mary Margaret stepped back and smiled.

"Well, you might not like it, but it likes you." Emma groaned, but allowed herself to be bundled into the only changing room by her determined friend.

Okay. It was cute. If you liked that kind of thing. A lacy dress with sleeves, thank god, that flared out from the waist. She twirled in front of the grimy dressing room mirror, and the skirt twirled too. That was kind of cool. Even if she wouldn't be dancing in it.

It was also not black, white, low-cut, especially tight or short. That was something.

When she finally emerged from behind the curtain, Mary Margaret clasped her hands together and beamed like she was watching her daughter heading off for prom. "Oh Emma, it's perfect."

"I don't know." Emma said doubtfully. "You don't think it's a little too.." She looked down at herself. "Yellow?"

"It's perfect." Mary Margaret repeated. "And Killian will like it." She said that last bit with a hint of an edge, and Emma knew she was caught the instant her face fell at his name. Her reaction did not escape her friend's attention.

"Okay, seriously, what is going on with you two?" Mary Margaret cleverly blocked the escape route back into the changing room with her body, and placed a hand on her hip. She clearly wasn't budging without her pound of flesh.

She'd almost made it a week. A full week of avoiding Killian Jones. Which, to give Emma some credit, wasn't all that easy to do when they shared an office, a number of work responsibilities, and two best friends and employers. Who were clearly not quite as oblivious to the tension as Emma would have liked to believe.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Mary Margaret didn't even credit that whopper with a response. She just arched one eyebrow, her lips moving into a straight line.

"Okay." Emma let out a breathe. "So things are a little... tense right now."

"You broke up with him?" It was interesting that Mary Margaret came to that conclusion.

"Why do you naturally assume that  _I'm_  the dumper?"

"Maybe because he's been moping around the office for the last week, looking like a puppy that has been kicked? And every time someone opens the door he gets this heartbreakingly hopeful expression on his face, until he realizes that it isn't you?" Emma rolled her eyes.

"I think you're overstating things a bit." She said, stepping around her back to the stall to change back into her street clothes.

"You'd think that..." Mary Margaret trailed off. Emma ignored her, and shut the curtain between them.

If Mary Margaret was trying to guilt her into taking Killian back, or whatever you would call falling back into what they'd been to each other, it wasn't going to work. Yes, obviously they had to talk. She was an adult. Realistically, she couldn't avoid him forever, no matter how good she was at it. But if the last few weeks had proven anything, it was that Emma Swan really,  _really_ sucked at relationships. She couldn't even sustain a fake one for a whole month.

When she emerged again, Mary Margaret was looking a little more contrite.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You know that no matter what, I'm always on your side, right?" God. Sides. Was the office going to be a battleground now, with lines drawn in the sand? Emma shook away the thought.

"I know." She offered Mary Margaret a quick squeeze on the arm, before holding out the dress. "I guess we have a winner?"

"Definite winner," she agreed. Emma flipped the tag over to check the price and immediately froze. Mary Margaret noticed, and bumped her with her hip.

"Everything alright?"

"Maybe not a winner." She said quickly, scanning the racks to see where it had come from.

Mary Margaret stilled her movements with one hand on her arm. "It's gorgeous, and you're getting it," she said firmly.

"It's $200."

Mary Margaret waved away her concerns. "My treat."

Emma snorted. "I'm not letting you buy me a dress because you feel sorry for me."

Mary Margaret just shook her head, and led Emma towards the cash register anyway. "What if I buy you a dress for your birthday tomorrow? I mean, you didn't really want a bath bomb set anyway, did you?" Emma sucked in a breath.

Her birthday. Tomorrow. And she'd completely forgotten.

"Oh, right. The big 2-9." Emma hastened to add a smile. "But it's still too much."

"For my best friend? Never." Mary Margaret wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and dragged her in front of the cashier. "We'll take this one. And some shoes to match?"

Emma cast her friend a sideways look.  _Give her an inch, and she'll take a mile._

* * *

Whilst Emma knew seeing Killian again was inevitable, she was content to drag out the separation for as long as she possibly could. The longer she went without seeing those baby blues, the longer her resolve would last. But of course, there was only so much she could do from home. Sneaking in for case files in the middle of the night reeked of desperation, and leaving a sleeping Henry alone in the apartment was not high on her do-to list.

She bit the bullet and headed in to the office after lunch. Just her luck, a quick survey of the parking lot confirmed the Charger was in the lot.  _Great._ He hadn't landed a skip after all. She took a second to compose herself outside before she stepped inside, running her fingers through her hair, smoothing her sweater.

The main office was empty, with the exception of Mary Margaret, who was on the phone. Even so, she still gave Emma a significant look as she passed her. Emma pretended she hadn't noticed.

With one more deep breath, she turned the handle and slipped inside their office before she could chicken out.

He was staring vacantly at his computer screen, chin resting on one hand, when she came in. She had all of two seconds to spy on him in his repose.

She took a small amount of satisfaction from the fact that he looked kind of wrecked. Although whether that was over her, or the drama of the Mysterious Stalker, she couldn't tell. But judging by the dark circles under his eyes and his wrinkled shirt, the man could certainly do with a shower and good eight hours, no matter the case.

He started when the door shut behind her, and his eyes grew wide when he realized who had interrupted him. He leapt to his feet so fast, he knocked over the row of empty energy drinks lined up on his desk.

"Swan." He swallowed visibly, his eyes on hers, ignoring the clattering of cans onto the floor around him.

"All-nighter?" She asked, motioning to the cans, taking a few careful steps towards her workstation.

"Oh, uh," He examined the mess, as if seeing it for the first time. "Something like that," he said, scratching at the nape of his neck. Emma took a step back and examined his workspace objectively. A small mountain of cans. Food trash littering his desk. Shirt had been slept in. She knew this Killian. She'd shared Twizzlers with this Killian. This was stake-out Killian.

She suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that if she  _had_ attempted a midnight file raid on the office, it would have been for naught.

"When was the last time you slept?" She asked, out of interest.

"So long ago that I'm about this close," his thumb and forefinger were practically touching, "to seeing sounds." She hoped to hell he hadn't been staking the place out since last week. It was a basic question of hygiene, at the very least.

"I've missed you, Swan." His expression was embarrassingly earnest, underneath the fatigue. His tired eyes told her he was telling the truth.

It wasn't an apology. She wasn't sure if she was going to get one. If she needed one. But it was something.

"I missed you too," she admitted. It cost her nothing to say it. "But that doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you. Or worried for you."

"Okay." Killian nodded simply, taking this in. And then he collapsed back into his chair and look a long swig of energy drink.

She paused for a moment, waiting to see if there was something else he was going to say, but apparently he was done. She couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed.  _That's_ what he stayed up all that time to say? Or did he just forget the rest? Or maybe he was trying not to push his luck?

She'd barely sat down in her own chair, when David burst through the office door, brandishing a file.

"We've got one!"

"I'll take it," said Emma, standing up abruptly. She looked across to Killian, whose reactions hadn't been quite up to scratch. He looked resigned, slumped in this seat.

"If the lady insists," Killian muttered, waving a hand.

"No, I think I'm gonna need both of you on this." David said, handing Emma the file. Killian immediately straightened in his chair.

"Seriously?" Emma took the file from him with a little more force than necessary. "He gets to take on Will Scarlet on his own, but I need a babysitter?"

"Trust me. You'll need the help with this one." Emma opened the file, and scanned the essential stats.

"A senior citizen? You've got to be joking." She looked across at Killian, but he was already up by the door, wrapping a Mary Margaret scarf around his neck.

"You heard the man, Swan. Vámonos!" He was looking far too happy at being included.

She looked back at David, pleading with her eyes. "Really?"

"Really." He smiled at her. The kind of smile Emma wondered if there wasn't something else at play here. Something like interference.

"Fine," she blew out a breath. She reached across and snatched the car keys out of Killian's hand. "But there is no way in hell you're driving. And we're stopping for more coffee."

"Whatever you say, love," he said, smiling, holding the door open for her. Emma rolled her eyes, and stepped out into the main office.

* * *

"David has got to be kidding." That was the first thought that popped into her head when she caught a glance of their latest skip treading the cereal aisle of her local grocery store, basket in hand. "That old lady?"

Killian stepped around the corner behind her, and nodded as his eyes landed on their quarry. "Aye. That's her. The rather unfortunately named Almira Gulch. 73 years old. The police found a cache of weapons in her garage. Up to and including an old sea mine."

Emma looked back at the old lady, white hair pulled back into a severe bun, thin frame drowning in a knitted grey cardigan, who was at that very moment struggling to reach for a box of Frosted Flakes. She looked back at Killian.

"Seriously?" Killian shrugged.

"Well, I guess we'd better help her with her grocery list, then." Emma started forward, but Killian stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

"Not so fast, Swan," he said, tugging her back towards him. "You don't remember the Neiman Marcus incident? I don't know about you, but I'd rather avoid yet another uncomfortable conversation with a store's security. We'll get her on the way to her car, while she'd laden down with shopping bags."

Emma usually liked to apprehend people in crowded, well-lit places, no matter the public spectacle. A trait which probably seemed obvious, given the Flying Monkey Debacle. But the fact of the matter was, a skip in full view of the public would be less likely to try something risky to escape, and there would be plenty of witnesses and back-up if she needed. But it seemed rather unlikely that Ms. Gulch could take on both of them, no matter the venue, so she agreed.

"Fine," she said, shaking her arm from his grip. "We'll do it your way. But  _don't_ lose her."

A lot of tracking down skips was about playing the waiting game. Emma knew this, appreciated this. She was no amateur. But she still thought that watching Almira take twenty minutes to decide between three brands of toothpaste, with Killian stood on one side of her, constantly staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking, was a special brand of hell.

"Stop it." She finally said, as their mark moved on to examining shampoo bottles.

"Stop what?" He asked, drawing closer.

She turned to face him directly. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" He asked, a hint of challenge in his tone, taking another step forward.

"Like I'm the reason we aren't madly making out right now!" He rose a suggestive eyebrow, and she wanted to slap it off his stupid, handsome face.

"You wanted to keep me at an arm's length, remember?" she pushed at his chest, to get him out of her personal space. He took an obliging, if reluctant, step back.

"To protect me?" she said unkindly. "You can't have it both ways. I can't be near you  _and_  in the dark. I can't do it."

"Because you don't trust me?"  _What?!_ How could he even...

 _"Of course_ I trust you! It's you who doesn't trust me enough to tell me what's going on with you! To have your back in this!" Emma felt the sting of tears, and tried to blink them back. This so wasn't the time or place for this.

"Emma..."

"Don't "Emma" me."

"No, Emma." He grabbed her shoulder, and turned her towards the end of the aisle where a half-full shopping basket lay abandoned. "Granny is making a run for it."

Fuck. Of course she was.

* * *

They'd clearly underestimated the irrepressible Ms. Gulch. Emma swallowed down the urge to tell Killian "I told you so." She'd reserve that for the post-capture gloating on the drive back.

A quick glance down the rest of the aisles confirmed she'd made a break for it. But she  _was_  still 73. She couldn't have gotten far. The main parking lot for the store was out front, fairly open all the way to the highway beyond. Killian motioned for Emma to check the cars in the front lot, while he checked around the back.

She did a quick sweep of the lot, looking around and under the parked cars. No sign of Almira, or the ancient blue Ford Galaxie she had registered with the DMV. She doubled back to meet with Killian, but when she rounded the corner at the back of the store, she found herself walking right into the hands of Almira Gulch, her gun trained on Emma's chest.

"Whoa," Emma raised her hands immediately, halting in her tracks. Almira trained her gun back on Killian, whose stance mirrored Emma's.

Of course she had a gun. She was up on firearms charges.

"Well this is embarrassing." Killian muttered.

"Less attitude, Paddy." Almira raised her gun higher. "Unless you'd like to lose that pretty face of yours."

"Whoa, Annie Oakley." Emma took a careful step towards her, arms still raised high. "Calm down. We're in bond recovery. We just want you to reschedule your court date. That's it."

She kept the gun on Killian, but looked over at Emma.

"I'm not going to prison."

"Okay." Emma tried to keep her voice level, interested.

"I have dogs to look after. Huskies. I breed 'em. No one knows how to take care of them like I do. The guns weren't even mine. My husband left them when he passed."

"Well, skipping bail wasn't a great start to your defense. But if we overlook this little incident, they might be lenient. No judge wants to send a member of the local horticultural society to prison, I promise you. It looks bad." She took another step towards her, when she saw the woman hesitate.

"Just put the gun down, and we'll let you go to the courthouse under your own steam. It'll look a lot better for your case." Almira looked between Emma and Killian, who was still standing, jaw clenched, staring down the gun.

"And you'll... just let me go?"

"We're on retainer. We don't need the money," he said. He took a sideways step, ensuring that she had to turn her head to follow his movements. "And we're not above helping out a genuinely innocent party, when the occasion requires." And that's when Killian's eyes flickered to Emma's, and she closed the last few feet and made a grab for the gun.

The old woman's grip was strong. Stronger than Emma would have given her credit for. Before she could wrestle it from her, there was a loud crack as the gun went off in Almira's hands.

The shock of it was enough for Almira to loosen her grip, and Emma pulled it from her, before she could do any more damage. A thought which was enough for Emma to whirl around, to check on Killian.

He was sitting on the ground a few feet away, stunned.

"Are you okay?" she asked, falling to her knees beside him, dropping the gun in the dirt so she could place a careful hand on his face, his beard scratching at her palm. She looked him over, but she didn't see any entry wounds. He just seemed a little dazed, blue eyes wide and unfocused.

"No bullet holes, Swan. If you were worried." She let out a sigh of relief, bringing her forehead to rest on his shoulder.

"Thank god." She whispered into the leather of his jacket.

She stood up then, and returned to attention to Almira Gulch, who was still standing where she had been when the gun had gone off, a slow awareness of the situation creeping back into her eyes.

"Almira Gulch," Emma said, taking her handcuffs from out of her jeans pocket. "My name is Emma Swan and I've come to make sure you reschedule your court appearance. How about a ride to the courthouse?" She bound the woman's wrists together, and hauled her in the direction of the vehicle. "My partner here can Google dog sitters while we're in the car."

* * *

She dropped Killian and the Charger off at his apartment, so he could get some sleep. A shower. Maybe eat something with actual nutritional content. She could catch a cab back to the office, just in time to grab the Bug and pick Henry up from his after school hockey practice. But when Emma finished placing the call to the cab company on her cell, she turned around to see Killian was still sitting on the front stoop, apparently intent on waiting with her.

"I told you so." She said, taking a seat beside him.

"Aye. That'll teach me not to underestimate the elderly." He rolled his eyes.

"I have to work on my disarming technique. That was too close, wasn't it?"

"Aye, too close for comfort." He agreed, catching her eye. "So are you saying you'd care if I was shot by a husky-raising, gun hoarding Granny?"

"Jones," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "I'd care if you were shot by a husky-raising, gun hoarding Granny." The edges around his eyes crinkled at that, in that way she liked. Which was the only explanation for what she did next.

Which was grab him by the lapels of his jacket and kiss the living daylights out of him.

They only broke apart when the beep of a horn shocked them out of their haze. Emma hadn't even heard the cab pull up.

But as soon as she pulled back, Emma was flooded with the reality of what she'd just done. Gotten her hopes up again. And his. And that dawning look of realization in her eyes was enough to slide the satisfied smile right off Killian's face when he caught a glimpse of it.

"No, Emma." He grasped for her hands, keeping her in place. "It's not a mistake."

"I have to go," she said, indicating the impatient driver, glaring at them through the windshield. "Henry's waiting."

"I know, just," he entwined his fingers with hers, his voice taking on a note of desperation. "Don't leave thinking this doesn't matter." She knew he meant it. Whatever else was going on, he did mean that. Which is why it was so hard for her to slide her hands from his, and take a few steps towards the waiting cab.

"It matters," she admitted, as she opened the rear passenger door. "It's just not enough."


	17. Chapter 17

When the sun rose on Emma's 29th birthday, skimming across the rooftops of the apartment buildings opposite and setting all the windows on her level ablaze with morning light, Emma was there to greet it from her chosen perch out on the fire escape. A clear night had turned into a bitterly cold morning, but with her comforter drawn tight around her, and a hot mug of cocoa warm between her hands, she was more interested in watching the city come alive on the streets below than moving inside, where it was warmer.

She still couldn't sleep.

Emma had never been what you would call a deep sleeper. When you grow up in the care of a revolving door of strangers, it's stupid to let your guard down. Even at night. Perhaps especially at night.

When you're a runaway, a safe place to rest your weary head becomes a pipe-dream. Something you long for, the same way a praying man longs for a miracle. She thought she might have found it once, in Neal's arms. In stolen moments in cheap motel rooms, or huddled together in the back of the Bug. In the plans they made of going straight, of a house by the ocean.

In prison, there's a certain illusion of safety behind those concrete walls and iron bars. But a cage is only ever as safe as the person holding the key. In prison, you're not in control of anything, least of all that. You can try to barter for it. Intimidate for it. Injure for it. Seduce for it, if you wish. But every night you lay in your bunk, you're still in a cage. At the mercy of those outside, holding the sticks.

And then there was Henry. Fretful and fussy and so, so tiny. She'd never been more scared than she had been those first few months, just the two of them. He rarely slept, and no amount of coddling or warm bottles or diaper changes or driving around with him strapped into the used car seat would calm him down. She'd been evicted from one place because of the noise complaints. She was convinced that he somehow knew she didn't know what she was doing, that she didn't know how to be a mother, how to take care of anyone, let alone someone so fragile, so small, so needy.

In the precious rare moments when he did zonk out, absolutely spent with exhaustion after all of that crying, Emma would sit on the floor beside his Goodwill crib, watching his little chest rise and fall in the darkness, unwilling to move away. She was like those people who get on planes and spend the entire flight willing the plane to stay in the air. She was sure that he'd stop breathing the instant she closed her eyes. It wasn't exactly conducive to a good night's rest.

In time he grew out of his colic, and she abandoned her night-time vigils for a job waiting tables in an all-night diner, entrusting her sleeping son to the care of a neighbor, with a flash of guilt every time she left him.

But as the jobs got better, and Henry got older, Emma Swan had discovered her love of sleep. She had a big comfy bed in an apartment that was all hers, with a deadbolt on the door she'd installed herself. Some nights with her son sleeping soundly beside her, after waking in the night with a bad dream, some not.

Henry's weekends away with Neal had been difficult for her, especially at first. She'd slept fitfully, her phone on the pillow beside her set to its loudest possible setting, should something,  _anything_  happen. It had been Killian who'd offered the first practical solution to her sleepless nights. Alcohol, and plenty of it. Occasionally accompanied by darts. Making fun of David. Pool. Harmless flirting that could be laughed off as drunken antics. On one memorable occasion, karaoke. More alcohol.

It may not have been the responsible thing, but it was a reminder to Emma that she wasn't quite as old as she usually felt. That she didn't have to be the grown up all of the time.

Things had been simpler then.

The last few weeks had been... less than restful.

Feelings sucked. There were no two ways about it.

From her eyrie, Emma could see some of her more early-rising neighbors pour out onto the street, rubbing blurry eyes, carrying briefcases and coffee thermoses as they headed down the road to the T station. Her building super was already up and at 'em, picking up the trash bags that had fallen out of the chute and missed the dumpster, before the truck came in an hour or so. It was a thankless job, and his expression on his face revealed his general level of job satisfaction. Though, come to think of it, he always looked like that. So much so that Henry had given him a nickname, Grumpy.

He was also the one who'd been there to witness Henry's little gravity experiment. It had been his shouts that had first alerted Emma to the situation. Watching him wade through a pile of garbage bags, short angry breaths visible in the chilly morning air, Emma knew it wasn't the ideal time for their next encounter.

Careful not to make the aged metal groan with any sudden movements, Emma stood up, clutching her blanket tightly around her, and climbed back in through the open window. She'd just made it all the way in, and tugged the last of blanket behind her when she practically ran into Henry in the hallway.

He was holding a tray in both arms, laden with toast, a mug of cocoa and a bunch of daisies, and wearing a dismayed expression.

Oh.  _Oh._

"Why are you awake? You're ruining everything!" The cocoa slopped over a little, as he took a sudden step back.

"I'm... sorry?" Emma tried. Henry groaned, placing the tray carefully down on the hall table.

"You have to go back to bed," he said, pushing her back in the direction of your bedroom. "Wait 10 seconds, and then act really surprised, okay?"

"Okay?" She said, once she'd reached the threshold. He just gave her another pained look and shut the door in her face.

God she loved that kid.

She settled back into bed, and no sooner had she rearranged the pillows, then there was a twist of her doorknob, and Henry kicked the door open, tray in hands, a wide smile on his face.

"What's all this?" Emma asked, smiling, playing the part.

"Happy Birthday Mom!" he said, rushing forward to place the tray on the nightstand.

"C'mere," she said, grabbing a hold of one arm and helping him up into the bed with her. She crushed him into a tight hug, feeling the tears sting in her eyes. "I love you, kid," he said into his hair.

"I love you too, Mom." She pulled back a little to look into his gorgeous little face.

"How'd I get so lucky to get a son like you?" she asked, brushing the hair from his face.

He just rolled his eyes, and scooted back a bit to sit at the end of her bed. "You're toast is getting cold!"

"Of course," Emma chided herself. "Priorities." She reached over and picked up the tray, placing it down on her lap.

"Flowers?" she asked, with half a mouthful of toast. The toast  _was_ cold. But it would take more than that to convince her this wasn't the best breakfast she'd ever had. No one had  _ever_ brought her breakfast in bed before. Unless you counted in the hospital, and Emma really didn't.

Henry shrugged. "You like flowers."

"I  _do_ like flowers," she said, lifting the small posy to her face to breathe them in. He hadn't even waited until she was angry with him to get them, either. Maybe there was hope for the romantic in him yet.

"So," she said, between mouthfuls of cold cocoa. "Did you want to play hooky today?"

"You mean it?" Henry asked, his expression not daring to be hopeful.

"Sure. Uncle David already said I could. And I told your Dad last night I'd drive you down myself. We could make a day of it, just the two of us, what do you think?"

"No school?"

"I think we've earned a day off. Besides," she shrugged. "It's my birthday. I want to spend it with my favorite person."

"You and me in New York?" A full blown grin was working its way onto his face.

"Yeah."

"That would be awesome!" He was practically vibrating at this point. "There's so many things I need to show you! There's the bagel place, and the Central Park Zoo, and pizza in Little Italy and-" he paused to look down at the Batman pajamas he was still wearing. "I need to get ready. You need to get ready. We need to go!" Emma shook her head at his sudden impatience, and hurried to place a kiss to his forehead before he scooted off the bed, and headed off to his room.

"Don't forget to pack for the whole weekend!" Emma called out after him, smiling to herself. She took another bite of cold toast. Maybe 29 wouldn't completely suck. But she definitely needed coffee before they went anywhere. A lot of coffee.

* * *

"I know why we're really doing this." Henry said, when they were stuck on the interstate in the middle of the Connecticut, Emma already on the lookout for the next exit with a drive-thru coffee window.

"Doing what?" Emma asked, distractedly, in her search for said coffee.

"Why you're driving me to New York yourself. Why I'm not at school even though you  _never_ let me take the day off."

"Because it's my birthday?" said Emma, glancing across at her son, who had apparently abandoned his Angry Birds phase. He shook his head.

"I know you're fighting with Killian." Smart kid. Too smart, sometimes.

She blew out a breath. "And what makes you think that?" If she had tells, she wanted to know them.

"I know an Apology Snow Globe when I see one." Emma snorted at that.

"I see."

"And you weren't really sick. Just sad," he reasoned, matter-of-factly. "But I think you would have told me if you were really broken up. So you're just avoiding him. Because you're angry. Or he's angry. Or someone's angry." Way too smart.

"It's complicated, kid."

Henry just groaned. "That's what grown ups  _always_ say. And it  _never_  is. He likes you. You like him. What's so hard about that?" This was so not a conversation Emma wanted to have. Least of all with a precocious 10 year old. Especially not  _her_  precocious 10 year old.

"What if I didn't like him?" She caught him rolling his eyes out of the corner of her eye.

"But you  _do_ like him. You  _told_  me!" Yeah, but she hadn't meant it then. Not really. "Besides, whenever you get a message from him you get this goofy look on your face." Goofy, huh? Great.

"How do you know they're from him?" Emma asked, hedging her bets.

"Duh. Because of the goofy look." Emma glanced across. Yep. He was looking at her like she was an idiot.

She sighed. "Liking someone isn't always enough."

"Of course it is." Sweet, summer child. "You're just worried he'll leave us. Like Dad did." Emma nearly swerved off the road.

She saw a sign up ahead for a rest stop, and pulled over the car in a shower of gravel.

She turned to him, willing him to see how serious she was. "Your Dad didn't leave you, Henry. You know that, right? Not ever." She reached across to unbuckle her seat belt, so she could reach across and grasp both of his hands.

"He left you," he muttered.

"Yes." She admitted, brushing away a stray tear. "But not you. Never you."

"You know you're a lot cooler than Tamara, right?" Emma couldn't help but burst out laughing. She unclipped his belt, and pulled him into a hug.

"Thanks, kid," she said into his hair. "But I think you're a little biased." She pulled back to look into his eyes. Not Neal's eyes. Henry's eyes. "He really does love you, you know? I know he's a little..."

"Selfish?" Henry supplied.

"I was going to say scatter-brained," she went for the softer option.

"Uh huh." Henry crossed his arms over, as if he didn't believe her.

"He's your Dad. And he's going to screw up sometimes. But he does love you, and he's going to stick around."

"And if he doesn't you and Killian can find him and drag him back, right?"

"Right. But it won't come to that. I promise. Pinky swear?"

"We could spit shake on it?" He offered. Emma felt a tingle down her spine.

"That's disgusting. Is that what the kids are doing these days? Do I need to start sending you to school with hand sanitizer?"

Henry shrugged. "It was in the book you gave me."

Emma sat up straighter. "Killian's book?"

"Yeah, Prince Charming and Captain Hook seal their first deal with a spit shake."

"That doesn't sound very fairytale-like."

"The whole book is like that. Really weird. It'll be a normal fairytale, and then suddenly someone will say something really out of place. And a character will just show up for no reason, and or leave for no reason. And the fairy tales are all mixed up. Almost like it was written by a kid."

"A... kid?"

"Yeah."

August W. Booth was no kid. That was for certain. Either he was a crappy writer, which was admittedly,  _possible,_ or he'd published the work of someone else. A kid. His kid? He didn't have the parental look about him, but then, Emma didn't either.

There was one other possibility. Milah's kid. What was his name? Barry? Bae? Ben. That was it. Killian had said he was 15 or so, just a couple years older than Henry. But that was ridiculous. That was hardly old enough to contract a professional stalker. Even if your Dad was fabulously wealthy.

"You okay?" Henry's voice asked, startling her from her thoughts.

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just... spaced out there for a second." She gave him a quick squeeze on the arm. "We should get outta here, huh? If we want to do everything on your list."

"Sure," he replied, still looking at her funny.

She shook her head clear. "But maybe I should stop for some more coffee first."

* * *

Emma had been to New York plenty of times, mainly for work, but it was always more exciting to see the city through Henry's eyes. Nothing was too cheesy or cliched. Meeting the penguins in the Central Park Zoo, eating cream cheese bagels whilst walking down Broadway, leaving tips for scruffy looking subway musicians, taking the Staten Island Ferry past the Statue of Liberty; he loved everything about it.

It was one of her better birthdays, and she was content to just follow behind as Henry pointed out all of his favorite things and places. His seemingly endless supply of energy did eventually begin to flag as the sun began to set, and Emma elected to cut short a planned walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to drop Henry off at Neal's apartment in the East Village. She still had to drive back to Boston, after all. He pouted a little bit, but perked up when they finally got to Neal's door.

Emma had never been in Neal (and Tamara's, she reminded herself) apartment before, content to just drop Henry and run on previous visits. But when Neal had opened the door with a genial birthday greeting, and an invitation inside for much needed coffee, Emma hadn't been in a position to refuse.

The place was nice. Bright. Large windows, with plenty of Scandinavian pine and light colored furniture. Pictures of smiling people on the walls that Emma didn't know. Emma guessed that Tamara had been in charge of decorating.

"No Tamara?" Emma asked, taking a tentative seat at the kitchen counter. Henry was down the hall in the spare room,  _his room_ , getting it ready so he could show Emma. There would have to be small talk.

"She's working late." Neal shrugged. "We're both trying to make up as many hours as we can, before the Honeymoon."

"Oh," Emma forgot about those. "Right. Going anywhere nice?"

"Florida."

Emma couldn't quite hide her reaction, the phone she'd drawn out of her pocket to distract herself falling out of her shaking hands, and bouncing loudly on the granite countertop.

Emma chanced a glance at Neal, who ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Yeah. Not my idea."

Back when they'd been two young thieves, living out of the back of Volkswagen and sick of Oregon weather, they had joked about moving to Florida. Tallahassee. Being Floridians. Getting a house near the beach. Working on their tans. Building a life together. A real life. When Emma had gotten off parole, she and Henry had moved there for a while, Tallahassee. It didn't have beaches, it turned out. Not exactly. And it didn't have the stupid happy ending Emma had been hoping for either. Eventually she'd realized that. Henry had been young enough not to remember, and Emma had never mentioned it. There didn't seem to be any point, really.

He didn't know about that. But he sure remembered the first part, if the apologetic look he was sporting was any indication.

"The flights were cheap and she wanted to go somewhere warm," he shrugged.

"I guess it kind of makes symbolic sense." Emma mused, before she could stop herself. "You found Tallahassee with someone else."

"Ems..." He took a step forward, but as he did the phone on the counter in front of her buzzed to life, and she took the lifeline that she was offered.

"I should, uh, take this," she said, dodging him and shutting herself out onto his tiny balcony before she accepted the call.

"Bad time?" It was David. Thank god it was David. She really should check her caller ID.

"Excellent time."

"Oh," he sounded surprised. "Well, good. I just have a quick question for you. You haven't seen Killian today, have you?" Emma's stomach lurched.

"Nooo. Why?"

"No reason," he replied quickly. Too quickly.

"David..." she said in a warning tone.

David sighed, and relented. "He's MIA. Didn't call in, so I was just wondering if maybe he was with you."

"I'm in New York with Henry. Maybe he's at the bottom of a bottle." Emma supplied unkindly. At least, she hoped for something that innocent.

"Maybe. I just thought I'd... ask."

"Sure."

"Well, Happy Birthday anyway Emma. Don't worry about it. I'm sure he'll turn up."

"I'm sure he will." She ended the call.

He probably  _was_ at the bottom of a bottle. Maybe with William, or one of the other numerous shady types he tended to drink with. No reason to think he was in some kind of trouble. He'd already agreed to a meeting with August's employer. There shouldn't have been any trouble on that end. Unless... that was the trouble.

And what could she do, exactly, being over 200 miles away? Maybe she would stop by his place when he got home. Just to check. Maybe have a chat with his downstairs neighbor. The omniscient one. But she wasn't getting involved. He hadn't wanted her help before. And besides, he was a grown man. He could take care of himself. Except when confronted by senior citizens packing heat, apparently. Fuck. She needed to get back.

The flurry of conflicting emotions must have appeared on her face when she stepped back inside, because Neal gave her a questioning look.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah," Emma waved him off. "Just a work... thing." He quickly surmised this was a code, considering who she worked alongside.

"Trouble in paradise?" he ventured. Emma's eyes flashed in warning, stuffing her phone back into her jeans pocket.

Neal stood back and held his hands up in surrender. "Hey, I was just taking an interest."

"Well don't, okay?" It came out louder than she intended, and they both turned to look down the hall to where Henry had disappeared. No sign of him.

"Look," said Emma, taking care to lower her voice. "I don't ask you questions about your relationship with Tamara, I'd appreciate it if you afforded me the same courtesy."

He had that look on his face again. The knowing one. She wanted to slap him.

"What?" she asked, maybe a little too harshly.

"You really like this guy."

"Why do you always say that? Why is  _everyone_  always saying that?! What's so shocking about that? Like you're the be-all and end-all of boyfriends, and I wouldn't eventually get over you?" Emma clapped a hand over her mouth, to physically stop herself from saying anything else.

 _Oh. Shit._  She  _was_  over him. She hadn't even realized until this moment. And  _he_ hadn't realized until that exact moment that it maybe hadn't been as easy as she'd made it seem, with all of her bluster.

Stupid Emma. Stupid, angry Emma. She had to get out of there, before she said something else she was gonna regret. And she made to, until Henry walked back out and stood between them, looking from anxious face to anxious face.

"Everything okay?" He seemed uncertain. Emma didn't blame him.

"Sure kid," she said, reaching up to ruffle his hair. "I just think I should be going. It's a long drive back to Boston."

"You can't!" he said in a sudden panic. That was wildly out of character. Emma paused, and then sank to her knees beside him.

"What's going on?" She asked, lie detector at the ready.

"You can't go yet! We haven't had pizza in Little Italy!" His eyes were getting larger and more doe-eyed every second. "For your birthday. I made reservations, see?" He said, turning his phone around to show a reservation confirmation page for a restaurant down the street.

That little sneak.  _That's_  what he had been doing in his room all this time.

Emma and Neal shared a look, as if to say,  _He's your kid._

"Alright, Henry. Looks like you win this round," she said, standing up and clapping him on the shoulder. She turned to Neal, in the interest of responsible co-parenting. "Up for a slice?"

Killian would just have to hold on a bit longer.

* * *

The place Henry picked out was nice. Alfredo's. A little cheesy, perhaps, with the red and white checked tablecloths and the fake mini Trevi fountain in the entrance, and some mournful Opera music crackling over some hidden speakers, but it was clearly a nice neighborhood place, packed with families. Whatever Google search he'd done had worked out just fine.

"Table for Swan, please," Henry told the bemused hostess, when they entered.

"Sure thing, little man," she said, "If you'll come with me?" She motioned to Emma and Neal to follow, and linked her arm with Henry's, before leading the way to a booth in the back, by the window.

"Know what you want, kid?" Emma asked, once they were seated, Neal and Henry on one side of the booth, her on the other.

"A pizza with everything?" He asked with a hopeful expression.

"Everything  _without_ shellfish," Neal corrected. Emma caught his eye, and smiled gratefully.

"That's what I meant," Henry recovered. "But first we're having dessert." Before Emma could contradict him, the entire restaurant broke out into a chorus of Happy Birthday, and Emma buried her face in her hands.

"You're evil," she said to her son through her fingers.

"Yeah, but you love me anyway," he smiled smugly, as the server set a solitary cupcake down in front of Emma, with a lit candle.

A single cupcake. Just like every year, since she'd been old enough to buy her own. That was some crafty kid she had.

"Make a wish, Mom," Henry urged, making the candle flicker with his insistence.

Emma paused a moment, grappling for something to wish for. Not that she believed in wishes, exactly. But she usually had something in her back pocket. Just in case.

Settling on one idea, letting it solidify in her mind, she closed her eyes and blew out the candle, and everyone in the restaurant cheered.

"So did it work, Swan?" Emma opened her eyes, whirling around to confront the damned owner of that voice.

Killian Jones was standing beside the booth, raking a nervous hand through his hair, wearing a familiar jacket. All $3000 of it.


	18. Chapter 18

Emma blinked again, to make sure he wasn't just a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation, or a caffeine overdose.

Nope. Still there.

She hated that the first thing she felt was relief. He wasn't in a ditch somewhere. Or a hospital. Or even passed out in a seedy dive bar. He was standing right in front of her, looking far too good in clothes spun from the down of rare goats. Sweet baby Jesus, there was even a waistcoat under there. And those baby blues, fixed on her, awaiting judgement, betraying the confidence of his relaxed pose, his lazy smile.

Before she could stop herself, she reached out, running a hand down the sleeve of his jacket. The expensive material was smooth against her fingers. It certainly felt real enough.

"What are you...?" Emma couldn't think. Couldn't focus.

"Happy Birthday, Swan." He gave a small bow of his head.

"How?" Killian merely cast a sideways glance at Henry, who was watching the spectacle unfold from his side of the booth, head resting on his hands, looking far too pleased with himself.

And everything fell neatly into place.

Emma had to give credit where credit was due. It was a hell of an ambush. She should know, she'd orchestrated a few in her time.

Emma turned to Neal first, who had moved so far over in the booth that it seemed like he was trying to become one with the wall, anything to escape the scene in front of him. Not that she blamed him, really. Not for that. "You see what happens when you give a 10 year old a smartphone?  _He's diabolical!_ " He flushed under Emma's gaze, but didn't defend himself.

"And you!" she turned her attentions to her son, some of the earlier smugness beginning to fade at her sharp tone. "You are so busted, Mister."

She glanced back at Killian, who was still standing there, his weight beginning to shift from one foot to the other, as if awaiting sentencing. He rose an eyebrow when he noticed her eyes on him. She was still holding onto his sleeve with one hand.

"I need a minute." She announced to the two sitting across from her, rising from her seat. "Just a minute. And I want the pepperoni.  _With_ the garlic bread _._ " She waited for them both to nod briefly before she made for the exit, dragging Killian behind her by the sleeve.

He began his piece as soon as they hit the sidewalk. "I know this is an intrusion but..."

"Oh save it," said Emma, pushing him into the nearest alley, and out of view of her nosy son, who she had little doubt was currently pressed up against the window, straining to see. "You know I don't care about that. David's worried about you. He's probably scouring area hospitals as we speak, looking for insufferable Irishmen with a penchant for leather. You need to call him."

"I see." He considered this, as if the possibility hadn't occurred to him earlier. Then his gaze focused on Emma, and he took a step forward, until they were almost nose to nose. "And were  _you_ worried about me?"

"I was actually." He looked almost pleased for a moment, but she didn't give him a chance to revel in it. "Until I realized that you'd just skipped town without telling anyone, selfishly leaving everyone to worry about you. What are you  _doing_  here?"

"Henry invited me," he shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. Emma wasn't buying it.

"What are you really doing here?" She turned on her internal lie detector, eyes flicking across his face.

"A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets," he answered in one breath.

"And what the hell does that mean?" He could be as poetic as he liked on his own time. Emma had pizza waiting.

" _It means_ ," he reached forward to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and she pretended the simple motion didn't electrify her insides. "That this thing with you isn't something I'm willing to just give up on, or forget about. Not while you are clearly not as indifferent to me as you like to pretend."

"What if I am?" Her voice came out smaller than she intended. Weaker.

"You're not. An indifferent person doesn't kiss like  _that._ " His eyes glowed with recollection, and Emma felt her cheeks redden despite herself. She supposed there was no sense in denying it, really.

"My lack of interest isn't the problem, Killian. It's everything else!"

"Aye." He nodded, and she hadn't expected him to agree with her. "The trust thing."

"Kind of a big roadblock, wouldn't you say?" She raised an eyebrow.

"That depends, Swan. How are you at driving tanks?" Emma rolled her eyes at the metaphor.

"I'm missing pizza for this."

"And I couldn't help but notice you didn't order any extra either for me." He laid both hands over his heart with feigned hurt. "So I shall deliver the offer I came here to give, and be on my merry way."

"And what offer is that?"

"Meet me tonight, once you've extricated yourself from the lad and the ex. And I will tell you everything you wish to know about me."

"Just like that?" Emma crossed her arms over her chest. There had to be a catch.

"There is, of course, a caveat." He raised a single finger in the air, and brushed it against her nose.  _Of course._ "You would have to tell me everything I have ever wished to know about you. For trust, or so I've been informed, darling, goes both ways."

"It's not that simple, Killian. You can't just solve everything with a game of Twenty Questions."

"Perhaps not," he mused. "But I think it is a bloody good start." Emma opened her mouth to protest, but the determined look in his eye shut her up. He  _wanted_ to fix this. He wanted  _her._ That wasn't nothing.

"Where?" She tried not to notice the way his whole face lit up at that single question.

"A bar in the West Village called The Last Drop. You can get Henry to Google the address for you. I dare say he's become quite adept on that device of his." He winked. "I'll stay until last call, should you wish to take me up on my offer."

"And if I don't?" He offered a wan smile.

"Then I wish you a very Happy Birthday, Emma Swan." He leaned forward, and brushed a single chaste kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering for a beat too long, before he pulled away. "And I'll see you Monday."

Then without another word, he adjusted the sleeves of his jacket needlessly, and turned away, walking back out onto the sidewalk.

"Don't forget to call David!" Emma called after him. He raised a hand in acknowledgement, but he didn't turn around, disappearing into the evening crowds on Mulberry Street.

* * *

"Where's Killian?" Henry asked, looking around when Emma sat back down at the booth again. Her pizza had arrived, in all of its cheesy glory, and she was starving.

"He already ate."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"

"What did  _I_  do? May I remind you that you're the one in trouble here?" She looked across at Neal for a little back-up, but he was busy pretending he was somewhere else, scrolling through Twitter on his phone. She rolled her eyes and picked up her first slice, taking a decent bite and savoring the wood-fired goodness. Henry still looked troubled.

"It really doesn't concern you, kid," she said, when she'd finally swallowed her slice.

"Of course it concerns me!" His voice broke through the dinnertime din, and Emma could feel a few faces turn their way.

"Look, Henry," she said, keeping her voice level, sliding a hand across to cover his on the table top. "It's okay. I know you were just trying to help. But we aren't quite at the sharing the pizza with the whole," she cast a sideways glance at Neal, " _extended_  family stage just yet, okay?"

Henry cast a similar glance at his father, and rolled his eyes. "Just promise me you'll talk to him."

Emma squeezed his hand with her own. "I promise I'll talk to him."

Heartened, Henry took a bite of his own pizza, weighed down with a mountain of toppings. Her own looked sparse in comparison. In fact, that wasn't all that was looking a bit bare.

"Hey, where's my garlic bread?"

* * *

The Last Drop was about as ominous a pub name as Killian could have picked, though it seemed to suit its basement location, a block from the Hudson. She hadn't yet mustered up the courage to go in, preferring to wear out the pavement in front with her pacing.

She'd be warmer inside. And she could drink the whiskey she so desperately needed to soothe her jangled nerves. But Emma knew that showing up was about more than sharing a simple drink. If she stepped through that door, she was saying she was in. All in. That she really wanted to try to make it work with Killian Jones.

The idea was petrifying enough.

But in order to do that, she'd have to give up a part of herself. Her secrets. Whatever he wanted to know. She'd never given someone carte blanche access to her life before. Not even David. Or Neal. Not entirely. Knowledge was power, after all, and even the most innocent detail became a weapon in the wrong hands. There was plenty that Emma never shared. Plenty that could be used against her. Plenty that could make him pity her. Or worse still, plenty to make him change his mind about wanting her after all.

And who knows what she might learn about him, with all of that naked honesty flying around?

Things could get seriously messy. More so than they already were.

She didn't need to go inside. Her Bug was parked just across the river. She could get on the subway and be at the parking garage in ten minutes, ready to drive home. She could be back home in her own bed by 1am, like it was any other Friday night. She'd see Killian on Monday, and he'd shoot her sad glances across the office, but she knew he wouldn't push her. A few weeks, and they'd move past the bulk of the awkwardness. She'd be alone. Just like she always wanted it. Just her and Henry. Where no one could hurt them. Safe.

* * *

"Is this seat taken?" she asked breezily, coming to rest an elbow on the bar beside him.

She'd wished she'd thought to take a picture, Emma wanted to preserve the expression on his face forever. Bitterness turning to surprise. Surprise turning to hope. Blue eyes shining. Stubbled cheeks straining with the makings of a beatific smile.

He was beautiful.

"Emma." he breathed.

"Hi." She really should have rehearsed what she was going to say beyond her lame opening gambit.

"Hi." He echoed, sliding from his seat to stand beside her, eyes drinking her in as if she was a mirage that could disappear at any moment.

"You're here."

"I am." Emma didn't know when she'd lost the ability to say more than two words at a time, but it had probably been when she'd been first hit with his baby blues. He really should have a permit to carry those things.

He held a hand out in front of her, and she stared at it for a second, before realizing what he wanted. She held her own palm up to his, linking her smaller fingers in his.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Swan," he said, voice wavering slightly. "Otherwise all I'll be able to think about is how much I want to, okay?"

Emma barely nodded, before Killian brought his free hand up to cradle her face, his lips meeting her own in a kiss that was almost, but not quite, appropriate for a public venue. What it was, was a promise, one that was echoed in the twinkle of his eye when they pulled apart.

"You look like you could use a few libations, love," he said, guiding her onto the stool next to his. "And I think Tiny here has just the thing." Emma glanced across the bar at the bartender, who surely cleared seven feet at least.

"Tiny?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Irony is a beautiful thing, Swan." He raised a hand to gain the man's attention, taking his own seat.

"The Dalwhinnie, if you please, my good sir," he said, as the bartender approached, looming over them. "Two glasses, and leave the bottle."

He seemed perturbed by the request, looking between them. "You sure about that?"

"I am." Killian cast Emma a sideways grin, squeezing her hand in his. "It's my lady's birthday today, and we're celebrating." Something warm curled contently in Emma's stomach at the proprietary nature of the statement. Something that would have made her run a mile before.

To Emma's surprise, the man turned to her with a genuinely warm smile on his face, and a made a slight bow as he deposited the bottle on the bar in front of them, followed by two whiskey glasses. "Then I wish you many happy returns."

"Thanks," Emma replied, surprised to find herself returning his smile, before he moved away to serve someone else down the bar.

Killian let go of her hand to pick up the bottle, rotating it between his fingers. "Dalwhinnie Single Malt. Aged 29 years." His blue eyes locked on hers. "Just like you." Emma felt herself blush under his gaze.

He cracked the top, and took care in pouring out two measures, before placing it gently back down on the bar.

"This is, as they say, the good stuff." He raised his glass. "To 29."

Emma picked up her own glass, and linked her arm with his. "To trust," she said, taking a moment to revel in his closeness.

"I'll drink to that," he grinned, the edges of his eyes crinkling. She clinked her glass to his, before leaning back and draining it in one smooth motion.

"Wow." Emma laughed, unhooking their arms to place her empty glass back on the bar. "That's good scotch."

"Aye." He placed his own glass down beside hers, his knuckles brushing carelessly against her own. "We probably ought to slow down, though, love," he said, drawing his hand back, "and savor it a little more."

Somehow, from the way he shifted on his bar stool, Emma didn't think he was just talking about the scotch.

"Are we seriously going to play Twenty Questions?" Emma asked, pouring out their second drinks.

"I was thinking we'd start small." Killian shrugged, taking a small sip from his glass. "Three questions each. Full answers. Complete honesty. No passing. No interruptions until the other person is done. Follow-up questions are allowed. Sound okay?"

"Really thought this through, haven't you?" Emma teased, before taking a sip of her own.

"What?" he asked, the picture of innocence. "You're the one who likes rules. And you made me wait here for," he checked his watch with a dramatic flick of his wrist, "An hour and thirteen minutes. It turns out there is only so much Tiny and I have in common. I had time to burn, as it were." Emma smiled at the idea of Killian making awkward small talk with the towering bartender.

"Henry eats too slow!"

"Ah, yes, of course. Blame the lad," he chided, good-naturedly.

"Actually, I spent twenty of those minutes pacing outside, summoning up the courage to come in." Emma admitted, in the spirit of openness.

"Well then, Swan," he raised his glass again, a soft smile on his lips. "I think that deserves another toast. To courage."

Emma raised her glass to him, and took another sip of the best scotch she'd ever had in her life. He watched her, before doing the same.

"And seeing as I am a gentleman," he placed a solemn hand on his chest. "I'll let you ask the first question."

"I get three, you said?" Killian nodded.

"Anything?"

"Anything." Something flickered behind his eyes when he said this. Something vulnerable, and childlike.

So she wasn't the only one who was scared to death.

"Okay," said Emma, twirling her glass between her fingers, watching the amber liquid coat the sides of the glass. "First question. Is August Booth working for Robert Gold's son?"

Emma watched the knuckles holding his glass turn white, as Killian finished off his drink, and met Emma's gaze firmly.

"Yes."


	19. Chapter 19

"Yes."

_Not "Aye."_

Emma had teased Killian a thousand times for his tendency to break into florid language, fit for another age, at every available opportunity. She hadn't realized exactly how much it would disturb her when he didn't. It was this, more than anything, that stopped the flurry of follow-up questions that had settled on her tongue. She waited for him to speak first, draining her glass, at a loss on how to otherwise fill the expanding silence.

"Was that a shot in the dark, or am I merely confirming your suspicions?" He asked, at last.

"Is that one of your questions?" Emma was confused. She'd been expecting exposition, not more questions.

"No," he replied carefully. "It's a follow-up."

"I thought only the asker could ask the follow-ups?" Emma asked, reviewing their rules of engagement in her mind.

"I didn't specify." The stiff facade he'd adopted at her first question crumbled, no match for the incorrigible wink he threw her.

_Clever man._

"I suspected, but I wasn't sure," she shrugged.

"You always were exceptionally shrewd, Swan. I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. Though it's a little disheartening that all of my efforts to coax you away from this have come to naught."

"And why did you? He's what, 15? How big a threat could he be? I mean, how much allowance can one kid have?"

"That's four questions, love." He rose a single eyebrow in challenge.

"Follow-ups," she replied breezily.

"Alright," he acquiesced with a small smile. "To begin, he's 16. Has been for a few months now, apparently. He's also living as an emancipated minor in San Diego, his father's position with the State Legislature keeping him mostly in Sacramento. On becoming emancipated, I am to understand he was eligible to delve into his not-inconsiderable trust fund. And as Mr. Booth tells it, he also apparently came into a few possessions of his mother's, left to him in her will."

"The photograph," she murmured with realization. Things were starting to lock into place.

"Amongst a few other enlightening trinkets, aye. The lad naturally has a few questions for me."

"So what's with all of August's cloak and dagger bullshit? Why didn't he just call you? Send an email?  _A fucking tweet?_ "

"I haven't met with the lad to ask. Though I have..." Killian rustled through the satchel hanging from his bar stool, and withdrew a piece of paper with his usual dramatic flourish, placing it on the bar in front of Emma. "An appointment on Thursday, to find out."

It was an airline ticket, leaving for San Diego on Thursday morning.

"You're going to go?"

"Aye. I'm going to go. I owe the lad that much."

"You haven't answered one of my questions." Emma asked pointedly.

"Aye." Killian scratched absently behind one ear. "I've been avoiding that one."

"Why worry about protecting me and Henry from a pubescent boy?"

"I wanted to make the deal with August before I knew for certain that Ben was behind all of this. To begin with, August's interest was solely with me. And that I could accept. But as you and I became... entangled, his gaze seemed to shift. Keep in mind, we don't know this lad. But he's proven resourceful so far, and unpredictable." He shot Emma a look. Unpredictable was one word for it.  _Maddening_ , was more like it.

"Presumably, all he knows of me is that I was involved with his mother at some point before her death. Maybe Robert Gold has mentioned my role in his mother's death? Maybe he's embellished it? Or maybe he's not mentioned me at all. I'm not sure, love. All I know is he's driven enough to hire an off-the-grid investigator to trail me across the country. Does he just want to talk to me? Does he mean me harm? And what of you, the new woman in my life? And Henry? With as unpredictable as August's movements have been, I didn't want to take any chances. Not with you, and not with Henry. I wanted the chance to find out the boy's motives for myself before I confided in you. Can you understand that?"

"You're going alone?"

Killian furrowed a brow. " _That's_ what you're concerned about, Swan? My  _meeting_? And that whole lying-by-omission business, just swept to the side?"

Emma couldn't resist. She swatted him over the head with the cocktail menu.

"I'm the obtuse one,  _really_?"

"Careful, Swan," he chided, rubbing the top of his head where she'd struck him.

" _Of course_  your safety is the most important thing. Don't be an idiot." He quirked an eyebrow at that, and Emma could see the irony in her statement. But the cocktail menu was made from laminated paper. He'd live. "Do I understand where you were coming from?  _Sure_. Would I have felt safer if I just knew what the hell was going on?  _Yeah_. I don't react well to being kept in the dark, Killian."

"Aye. I see that." He seemed eager to skip over the subject, but Emma reached over, covering his hand resting on the bar with her own. "Emma?" he said with interest, clasping their fingers together.

"You know how I went to jail?" She began slowly.

"Emma..." She silenced him with a squeeze of her hand.

"I don't want you to think I was..." she stalled. "I mean... Neal and I..."

"You don't have to..."

"Yeah, I do." She reassured him with a wry smile.

Emma took a deep breath, starting anew. "I ran away from my last group home when I was 14. I didn't have any money, anywhere to go, so I stole. At first, it was just enough to get by. I was  _really_  bad at it, to begin with. I nearly ended up in juvie a few times. But I got better. I got pretty good. And then I met Neal. And he was like me. And it was good for a while. But we talked about giving it up. Going straight. Finding somewhere to call home. A real home. But we needed money to do that. Neal had some watches he'd stolen in Arizona, but he needed to fence them to pay for our new life."

"Please tell me this isn't headed where I think it is headed," Killian pleaded, rubbing a spot on his temple with his free hand, in apparent stress.

"You've read the rap sheet. You know where this is heading. Neal had a record, so I'm the one who retrieved the watches from where he stashed them. So far, so good. He took the watches to meet his fence, and left one with me, so I wouldn't miss our meeting after. Only... there was no meeting after. Just two cops waiting to bring me in."

"I'm going to fucking kill him," Killian said blandly, rising to his feet suddenly, severing their connection.

"No." Emma stood too, grasping the lapels of his very expensive jacket in her fists to keep him in place. "No, you're not."

"He sent you to prison _for_   _his fucking crime_?" He hissed as quietly as he could manage, his blue eyes icy cold, fists clenched by his sides.

"Yeah, you're right. It sucked. But I mean, let's not kid ourselves, I  _was_  a thief. I'd stolen plenty to warrant that jail cell, all on my own. But it was the betrayal that really hurt."

"I see now why David clocked the sniveling coward when he first clapped eyes on him. I would've beat him to it, had I known."

"I know." Emma smiled, despite the venom still lacing his words. Because she knew he meant well, even if his chivalry was misplaced.

"When I saw him again, I asked him why he'd done it. And he told me the truth, finally. He'd pissed off a couple of people in Phoenix. Scary people. Defaulted on a few loans. These weren't the kinds of people one should piss off. His fence had tipped him off. They were in Portland, looking for him. They were looking for me, too. So he did what he thought he had to to keep me out of their way."

"By sending the woman he loved to prison,  _pregnant with his child_?!" Emma released his jacket, reaching for his clenched hands instead, holding them in her own.

"To be fair, he didn't know about that part yet. Nor did I. But he made the decision for both of us. He thought he was protecting me. But he wasn't. You see where I'm going with this?"

"I would never betray you, Emma." Killian reached a hand up to cup her face, his eyes intent on hers. He meant it. Or he believed it. Both were fine with her.

Emma smiled as she leaned into his touch. "That's good to know."

She glanced down to see his left hand still curled against his side, held fast with lingering rage. "Whoa there. I think you need to work off some of that latent aggression, buddy." He raised one eyebrow at that, his eyes darkening with unbidden thoughts. Emma rolled her eyes.

"Pool," she said, grabbing him by the elbow and gesturing to the unused table in the corner. "We're gonna play pool. You can pretend every ball you hit is Neal's head. That's what I like to do." Killian grunted in reluctant approval, jaw still clenched.

"And don't forget the bottle."

* * *

"So what's with the book?" Emma asked, once Killian's turn had ended, and she was done admiring the long, lean lines of him as he took his shot.

"Is that an official question?" He wondered, handing her the only other serviceable pool cue in the place.

"It's an official question." She confirmed, taking a moment to consider her next shot.

"We aren't taking it in turns, then?"

"You didn't specify."

"Touché." He tipped an imaginary cap, and Emma smiled, before lining up her shot.

"Henry thought it was written by a kid. Ben, I'm guessing?"

"So Henry is the real detective in the family, then?" Emma just rolled her eyes, sinking the green ball.

"Nicely done, Swan."

"I gave it to him to read," Emma said, moving around the table to line up her second shot. "He noticed the irregularities when I didn't. Uneven storytelling. Unlikely scenarios. There weren't a lot of kids in our suspect pool. Just one. And he would have had access to the photograph..."

"Aye. It's Ben's. A childhood project, I believe."

"Why did he get August to give it to you?" Emma took the second shot, but the angle wasn't quite right, the ball she wanted to sink bouncing out of the pocket instead.

"I honestly don't know, Swan," Killian said, reaching to take the cue from her. "It's one of the things that I hope we can discuss at our meeting. But it's personal to the lad. No doubt. I can only assume he meant it to serve one of two purposes."

"Which are?" Emma asked, after he sank his yellow ball.

"Either he meant to introduce himself to me, through his work. Give me a glimpse of his childhood that I missed." He paused, considering either his next theory, or the next ball to be sunk. "Or... he meant it to distract me. Confuse me. For his own amusement, or because he has a nefarious ulterior motive." That was a cheery thought.

"Seriously, who talks like that?" Emma asked, standing by him as he took his shot. He missed. By a lot. The white ball didn't hit a single one of his balls.

"I do," he said, rising to his full height, looking her square in the eye. "And you are very distracting when you are standing that close."

"Oh really?" Emma asked, taking a step closer, until their noses were practically grazing.

"Aye," Killian whispered, breath brushing her cheek, eyes intent on her lips.

"Well then, you should be more careful." She whispered back, her lips ghosting over his, before grabbing the pool cue out of his loose grip and taking a step back, grinning.

"That's poor form, love." He crossed his arms over his chest, failing at appearing stern.

"I thought you were wise to all my tricks?" Emma teased.

"Let the record state, Emma Swan, that when it comes to you, I am just as helpless as any other man caught in your web." He moved to the side table, pouring out two more measures of scotch.

"To the spider," he said, raising one glass, handing her the other.

She considered her reply for a moment. "To the web," she smirked, raising her own. Killian winked, before taking his next sip.

"May I ask an official question?" Killian asked, once he'd drained the last of his drink watching Emma take her turn.

"Of course. That is the name of the game, right?"

"Right." He said, taking the pool cue from her. But instead of lining up his next shot, he placed his hands over the end of the cue, resting his head on it, watching her.

"Alright, you've officially made this creepy." Emma made a move for the cue. "If you don't ask in five seconds, you forfeit a shot." Killian dodged her outstretched hands, and made to line up a shot.

"I just wanted to commit you being adorably mad at me to memory, in case you accidentally became really mad at me."

Emma was cagey. "And why would I become accidentally really mad at you?"

"Did you instigate the fake boyfriend charade to make Neal jealous, because you desire a reconciliation with him?" Killian asked, giving up on the idea of taking a shot, and resting the cue on the table instead.

"Seriously?"

"I know he's hurt you in the past, Emma." He said, finally meeting her eyes from across the table. "I'm beginning to see just how much. But I also know that hearts can be stubborn things. And sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants, even if it doesn't make any practical sense."

Emma swallowed back the fighting words on her tongue. That's how she would have done things before. Lashed out. Pressed at the wounds. The wounds that spelled Milah's name on his skin, like a brand. But she wasn't that person anymore. Not with him. She didn't want to be.

"He's getting married. In a week. To a Kappa Delta Phi from Maine. We  _really_  don't need to be discussing this."

"That's not what I asked." He wasn't looking at her now. Emma didn't know if that was worse.

"Honestly?" She owed him the truth. She knew that.

"Honestly." He almost seemed resigned.

She picked up her glass, and drained the contents before she began. "When I got the invitation to the wedding, it hurt. I really fucking hurt. I felt humiliated, and betrayed, and not good enough, and yeah... a little jealous. I got the prison term and the back seat of a Volkswagen, and she got the happily ever after. The honeymoon in Florida. That's where we were gonna go, you know? Tallahassee." Emma could feel the tears starting to well unbidden in her eyes, and she tried blinking them away.

Killian's eyes were wary, but he propelled himself forward anyway, skirting the table to arrive at her side, his larger hands reaching forward to envelop her own. He was warm. Steady. Even if she wasn't sure if she deserved it, every word she spoke seems to cause him pain.

"I admit, the fake boyfriend idea did spring from a desire to see if I still had the power to inflict pain on him, the way he's always been able to on me. And I love Henry. More than anything, or anyone. But he's got his father's eyes, and almost every day for 10 years I've been looking at those eyes, and seeing Neal looking back at me."

"I don't know if I can do this," Killian said, voice wavering, his grip on her hands weakening.

"Wait!" Emma said, a little panicked, snatching his hands back into her own. "I'm not done. Okay?" Killian merely nodded, but Emma saw that it cost him, a corner of his mouth drooping with the effort to remain stoic.

"I was standing in Neal's kitchen today, and we were bickering like usual, and he said something that everyone has been saying for weeks.  _"You really like him,"_  they all say. Neal. David. Mary Margaret. Ruby. Henry. Hell, even William said something along those lines. All in this tone of pure fucking surprise that made me want to punch the lot of them." Killian smiled involuntarily at that, even if it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"So I snapped at Neal, and asked him why that was so hard to believe, as if getting over him was so hard? And I didn't realize until the moment that I said it, that I was over him. I mean,  _really was_. A part of me is always going to hate him, and a part of me is always going to love him. And part of me will still twinge whenever he does something with her he talked about doing with me. But absolutely  _no_  part of me wants that back. I promise you."

He hadn't said anything yet. Emma squeezed his fingers in hers, trying to get some reaction out of him. To make sure she hadn't screwed it all up. Not already. He's still just looking at her, with those huge dumb blue eyes.

"Please say something?" she asked, in a smaller voice than she would have liked.

"You, ah..." his voice was scratchy, and he cleared it and tried again. "You  _really like_ me?" Emma practically melted with relief, letting go of his hands to lay a hand on each side of his face, grazing his stubble with her thumbs.

"Yes, you idiot," she said, rising up on her tiptoes, to reach his lips. "I _really like_ you."

They made out for so long, completely lost in their own little happy bubble, that they didn't come up for air until Tiny threatened to hose them down with the soda gun if they didn't cut it out.

"I think we've outstayed our welcome, Swan," Killian remarked cheerfully, casting another glance over at their formally friendly bartender, now glowering in their direction, before turning around to empty the dishwasher. Killian held up the bottle of scotch, examining the scant remains.

"I was going to drive home tonight," Emma reflected sadly, looking at the bottle's depleted state, her former plans lying in ruins at her feet.

"You can stay with me," Killian shrugged, pulling a room key from his satchel. "I've a room in a hotel in Soho." Emma's eyes darted from the key in his hand, to his unassuming expression in an instant, but he still caught the momentary glimmer of panic in her eyes.

"Swan, how dare you presume I'd be that easy?" He gave her an easy grin, clutching his breast in mock outrage. "You haven't even taken me on an official third date, and I am  _nothing_ if not a stickler for outdated courting rituals." She rolled her eyes, feeling the roll of panic subside. She's grateful though, at his attempt to diffuse the tension.

Not that Emma found the idea of spending a night in Killian's bed all that terrible a prospect. The man was liquid sex, after all, especially in those clothes, snug fitting and smooth against her fingers, his hair all adorably scruffed up from their earlier make out session. She'd been checking him out all evening, and despite the fact that she had only dressed comfortably that morning for a day outside with her son, in her usual jeans, turtleneck and leather jacket combo, she'd caught him doing the same. It's not that she didn't want him. She did. She really, really did.

But until five minutes ago she'd thought she was going to be ending the evening the way she ends all the rest. Alone. In her own bed. Like she was used to.

It had been a while. And with someone she actually gave a shit about? Forever.

And that was scary.

"It's alright, love," Killian's voice shook her from her thoughts, slow and deadly serious. "I am merely offering a resting place. You've had quite a lot of fine Scotch, and hotel rooms are hard to come by this time of night at reasonable rates." The cost of a hotel room was an expense she could really do without. "And it's hardly gentlemanly to let such a lovely lass spend her birthday night cramped in the back of a Volkswagen." He brushed a quick kiss against her lips, before taking a step back to take her measure.

"Second official question. Will you stay with me tonight, Emma? I promise, no funny business." He considered this for a moment. "Not until you ask," he added, with a wicked grin. Emma nodded, linking her arm with his.

"I'm 29 now. I think my back is officially too old to bend into that backseat anymore."

"Such wise words for someone of your advanced years." He nodded approvingly, brushing a finger over her nose. Emma elbowed him in the ribs.

"I didn't even bring a toothbrush." She lamented, when they hit the sidewalk, a brisk wind over the water causing her to snuggle closer to him, wrapped in his winter coat.

"Swan," said Killian, opening his coat so she could bury herself against his warm chest. "I will buy you a toothbrush."

 


	20. Chapter 20

True to his word, they stopped at a bodega on Houston Street on the way to the hotel. Killian left a pouting Emma by the magazine rack inside the front door, swaying slightly on her own two feet, as he approached the counter, entering into a lively discussion of pidgin Spanish and comical hand gestures with the clerk.

Emma's Spanish was limited to a few obscenities taught to her by a fellow inmate many years ago, and a handful of useless phrases drilled into her in a Freshman Spanish class, before she'd run away.  _¿Dónde está la estación de tren? El clima esta agradable._ She didn't know how or why she still remembered them, especially with the scotch swimming in her bloodstream. But watching Killian's conversation with the clerk, his accent shifting as he tried to make himself easier to understand, his tongue sweeping in new configurations as he sounded out the unfamiliar words, she could see the appeal of the language.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Killian turned his head sideways to look back at her, one eyebrow raised. Caught, Emma quickly made as if she was busy browsing the rack, even if the headlines swam in front of her eyes. After a few moments, she glanced briefly back at him, to see he had returned to his original conversation, albeit wearing a newly minted smirk.

After a few more gestures, the deal was struck, the cashier taking the proffered handful of notes, and sliding a bag over the counter towards Killian. With a final goodbye to the man, Killian came to stand beside her, still smirking.

"Everything alright, Swan?"

"I didn't know you could speak Spanish," she said, a teasing smile on her lips.

He shrugged. "Only a little, love. _"_

He opened his coat for her again, and she didn't waste any time sheltering underneath it, coming to wrap her arms around his torso. She knew it was mostly the alcohol making her feel this way, so eager to be near him, radiating in the warmth of him, but she didn't find that she minded. Killian certainly didn't, tucking her under his chin, pressing a kiss to her forehead, as they made their way back out onto the street.

"High school?" she asked. He took a second to gauge her meaning, and then shook his head.

"Telenovelas," he corrected.

"You're serious?"

"It wasn't a straight shot from sailor to skip tracer, you know. There were some... wilderness years."

"Wilderness years?" Emma was curious about those. He looked down at her, some trepidation creeping into his eyes.

"You don't have to..." Emma began to backtrack.

"No, it's alright." He batted away her concerns. "I don't think you are laboring under any illusions about me. I've fucked up more than my share. Bad decisions. Bad people. Bad taste in television." He snickered lightly. "After Milah passed, I spent some months unable to move from my couch, in a very serious, committed relationship with Captain Morgan, watching attractive people I couldn't understand embroiled in all manner of love affairs and revenge plots, between blackouts."

"Sounds healthy," Emma murmured, squeezing him tighter.

"It certainly put my own sufferings into perspective," he smiled with a hint of self-deprecation. "Alas, self-loathing and alcoholism don't pay the bills, and I held all manner of dubious odd jobs, until I was eventually forced to embark on an auspicious career cleaning the hulls of boats belonging to rich wankers."

"Not the career for you, I'm guessing?"

"Pure drudgery, even if very few people bother you underwater. I was spending all of my spare time harassing the private investigator I'd hired to work on Milah's case. Eventually I think he got so sick of having me underfoot that he put me on the payroll and sent me out after skips, just so I'd leave him alone. And I haven't put on a pair of flippers since."

It wasn't quite an origin story, but it was a piece of Killian Jones she hadn't ever met before; the downtrodden, rum-soaked figure, losing himself in the dramas of others in an attempt to forget his own heartbreak. Looking up at him now, the slight curve of a smile lingering on his lips, one arm keeping her secure at his side as they crossed the street, she couldn't see that man. The Killian she knew had always been confident, fast-thinking, a real handful. He'd never been quite as cocky and self-assured as he projected, but very little ever seemed to truly bother him. At least, not until the events of the past few weeks.

"And then you got a call from your boss's brother in Boston, asking if you wanted a change of scene," Emma finished the tale, familiar with the next part.

"Aye. Dave made quite the convincing offer. I'm not sure James ever did forgive him for poaching me away like that. Nevertheless, I made my move, and stumbled into your life, Swan, and the rest, they say, is history." He leaned downed to kiss her then, a sweet chaste kiss, before Emma broke it with a laugh.

"Swan?"

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "It's just, do you remember how much I hated you when I first met you?"

"Hated me?" Killian stopped them in the middle of the sidewalk, so that he could face her directly. She slipped out from under his coat, missing the warmth immediately. "You never hated me, love."

"Are you sure about that? I remember being downright hostile those first few months."

He snorted. "Only because you thought I was there to replace you."

" _Of course_ I thought you were there to replace me. You were this hotshot skip tracer brought in from California, and I was an ex-con with a kindergartener at home. What was I supposed to think?"

"You  _really_  thought the Nolans were just going to toss you into the gutter? After everything?" As soon as he said it, a dawning realization spread across his features. "You  _did_ think they were going to toss you out. Because that's what everyone else had always done." Unable to speak, Emma only nodded, and Killian wrapped her tightly in his arms. "I'm sorry, love," he whispered into her ear. "I wouldn't have given you so much grief those first few months, had I known."

"I know," she whispered back.

"Even if stoking your ire was the highlight of my days, back then." He leaned back a little, so she could see his face. "You've always been so beautiful when you're angry, Swan. You get so flushed..." He gave her a salacious wink, and Emma slapped his chest.

"That's not funny."

"Whatever you say, Swan," he smiled, tugging her in the direction of a nearby building with glass doors out front.

"This is it?" Emma questioned, when they paused outside.

"This is it," Killian confirmed, handing her the bag from the bodega while he fumbled around in his satchel for his room key. The bag was bulkier than she imagined, evidently containing more than just a toothbrush. She resisted the urge to peek inside, waiting instead for Killian to open the glass door, which he did with a dramatic wave of his key card, before turning to her at last.

"Coming, Swan?"

* * *

Killian's room was on the sixth floor, and would have been as unremarkable as any other generic hotel room, if it weren't for the view. A floor to ceiling window with an unimpeded view all the way to midtown, with the Empire State Building taking center stage, lit up orange for Halloween the following week.

"Woah," said Emma, dropping the bag on the bed and making her way immediately to the window, her forehead resting on the glass. Henry would love this. She'd have to send him a picture. She pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket to do exactly that when she caught the reflection of Killian standing behind her, folding his coat between his hands, watching her. She whirled around.

"What are you doing?" she asked, suspicion in her voice.

"Just admiring the view," he winked, dropping his coat down next to his duffel bag.

"You're being creepy," she amended.

"I confess, I derive a certain amount of second-hand pleasure from seeing you delight in things. I don't think you've ever allowed yourself too many indulgences." He ran a hand across his stubbled chin. "Which is understandable, I suppose, considering everything. But I like watching you when you do. Your eyes get all wide, like you can't quite believe it."

Emma was temporarily at a loss for words.

"I know. I know. Creepy." Killian held out his palms in surrender.

"Definitely creepy," Emma agreed. "But kind of sweet too."

He barked out a laugh. "A descriptor I've usually managed to avoid in the past. I'll beg you not to spread it around. I've a reputation to uphold, Swan."

"Yes, of course," Emma said, turning around to take the picture she wanted. "Bad ass bailbondsman, breaker of hearts, driver of muscle car, lover of leather. I wouldn't want to mess with that carefully constructed image."

She heard him take the last few steps towards her, before she felt his breath on the back of her neck, making her shiver. "You forgot dashing rapscallion," he whispered into her ear, breath ghosting over her earlobe. Emma placed a hand on the window in front of her to steady herself, jamming her phone back into her pocket.

"You are so full of yourself," she whispered back.

"Mmmm." He hummed in agreement, brushing her hair aside so he could plant a kiss to her neck. "But you quite like that about me."

At that particular point in time, with Killian's lips trailing down her neck, Emma had trouble remembering anything that she  _didn't_ like about him. More than that, she couldn't think of a single reason to run. She turned around, trapped between Killian's heated gaze and the window, pulling off her jacket and dropping it to the floor.

"Emma..." Killian's voice was a warning.

"Killian..." she replied teasingly, leaning forward to kiss the worried wrinkle that had formed between his eyebrows.

"I meant what I said about there being no funny business." His voice was perfectly serious.

"That's interesting," she said, reaching forward to undo the buttons on his jacket. "I thought you also said there could be, if I asked." He stilled her hands in his, with one button left to go.

"The only thing that's changed between then and now is your blood alcohol reading," he murmured. Emma shook her head, breaking out of his grip to bring a hand to the back of his neck, bringing his lips down to meet her own. It was a lingering kiss, slow and meandering, meant to accomplish one task; to bring Killian to heel.

"I didn't change my mind because of the scotch, Killian," she said, when they finally pulled apart, one thumb grazing his cheek, over the scar she still hadn't asked about. "I changed my mind because now that I'm all alone in a room with you, all I can think about is how much I really, really want to sleep with you." She took advantage of his stunned silence to pop open the last button on his jacket, and begin peeling it off his shoulders.

"Careful, Swan," he said, sliding it off, and placing it carefully the chair near the bed. "I think being ravaged by you might constitute a breach of their return policy."

"So practical," she smiled, leaning forward to kiss him again, urging him backwards towards the bed. "Tell me, Jones. Official question time. You're the practical sort..." She paused to pull her turtleneck over her head, enjoying the way his eyes glazed over at the sight of her exposed skin. "Did you think to buy condoms as well?"

Killian leaned back blindly to retrieve the bag, his eyes still on Emma, emptying the contents out on the bed. A toothbrush. A hairbrush. An 'I HEART NY' T-Shirt. And one box of condoms.

"I wasn't expecting..." he scratched nervously behind one ear. "I'm  _not_  expecting..."

Emma took a step forward and silenced him with another kiss. "I know." She reached down to contend with his vest and his button down.

"You wear too many layers," Emma huffed, when her progress revealed a wife-beater underneath. Killian laughed, pressing a kiss to her collarbone whilst sliding his shirt from his shoulders.

"May I ask an official question?"

"Now?" Emma asked incredulously, reaching down to pull off her boots.  _Of course,_ the zip on one got stuck half way down. "Now?"

"You do owe me one final official question..." he reminded her.

Emma sat down on the edge of the bed, holding out her boot-clad foot to him. "Get this off, and I'll answer your damn question." Presented with a challenge, he grinned, sitting beside her before setting himself to the task. He pulled it off in seconds, shooting her a wink before throwing her boot behind him.

"What did you wish for?" His smug smile turning ever so slightly more serious, pulling his wife-beater over his head.

"Huh?" Emma asked, momentarily stunned by the expanse of bare chest on display.

"Your birthday wish," he prodded her, unable to hide his delight at her level of distraction, delivering another flurry of kisses to the side of her neck. "What did you wish for?"

"I wanted you to be safe," Emma answered, before she realized what she was saying. Killian paused in his attentions, straightening up to look her in the eye, the smile on his lips fading.

 _"That's_ what you wished for?" Emma wasn't sure if he was mad or not. Her next words were almost defensive.

"What? I thought you were in trouble. You'd done a bunk, and no one knew where you were. I was worried."

"Darling," he said, brushing her hair from her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone. "You don't have to worry about me."

"No?" Emma asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No."

"You're sure?" In reply, Killian leaned forward and kissed her, and she found her defiant stance melting away, her hands falling to her sides. And then reaching back up to explore his chest. His shoulders. His back.

"I'm sure," he said, pulling back, catching back his breath.

It was a convincing argument. "Good." He smiled at her. The kind of smile that Emma felt low down in her stomach. "Now take off your pants."

He grinned, drawing her back into his arms. "As you wish."


	21. Chapter 21

"Alright, I have to ask." Emma rolled over to face him, gathering the sheets to her chest. "What's with the shirt?"

"Shirt?" Killian groaned into his pillow.

Emma reached underneath his naked torso and pulled out a rather large rumpled black T-shirt, and held it out in front of him, one eyebrow raised, the "I Heart NY" logo clearly visible stretched between her fingers. "This monstrosity?"

"Ah." Killian plucked it from her grip with a smirk, leaning his weight onto his elbow so that he could face her. " _That_  shirt. This  _monstrosity,_ as you so deem it, was for you, darling. I'm afraid I didn't pack much in the way of spare clothes, and I thought you'd rather sleep in that than your day clothes. However..."

He tossed the offending garment onto the floor beside the bed with a dramatic flick of his wrist. "I can't say I regret your alternative choice in sleepwear..." he said, voice thick with undisguised want, letting his gaze linger over her form, a thin white sheet she'd gathered around herself protecting the last remains of her modesty.

Emma unconsciously tightened the sheet around her, feeling an unbidden blush warm her cheeks, and spread down her neck.

"Come now, Swan. No need to be bashful," he said, reaching out to trace the curve of her shoulder with his fingers, his smile soft. "I think I've made it  _quite_  clear, I'm a fan of every part of you."

Emma shook her head, burying herself into her pillow to hide the goofy grin she could feel spreading across her face. The man had just gotten laid. Twice. And here he was, still laying on the charm, thick as molasses.

"Sure, cowboy," she said, peeking out from under the pillow. "I'm still trying to reconcile the fact that you had time to pack a bag,  _and_  buy a train ticket, but not enough time to call David and tell him you were going out of town?"

"What can I say, darling?" he said, pulling the pillow away from her with a wicked grin. "Maybe I'm just a terrible employee?"

Emma leaned forward, brushing her lips with his. "Oh?"

"Or maybe..." he punctuated his words with an answering kiss, "I just didn't want..." Another kiss, "anyone dissuading me from my plans?"

Emma placed a hand on his chest, to stop the next kiss, her eyes narrowed. "Your plans, or Henry's plans?"

Killian shrugged. "Let's split the difference and call it a... group effort," he said with a flash of teeth.

"He is  _so_  grounded," Emma mumbled, leaning into Killian's chest, feeling his arms close around her.

"And here was I thinking you were quite  _satisfied_ with the outcome of these machinations, love?" He leaned back to gauge her reaction. "Or no? Will the third time be the charm? There's still the shower to-" Emma cut him off with a slap to his chest.

"You're such a cocky son of a bitch."

A beat. "Was that a no to the shower, then?" Emma just rolled her eyes, tucking herself back into his chest.

Emma wasn't going to lie and say she hadn't ever imagining this scene playing out. She'd definitely thought about it. But she'd never expected that for one second she'd stick around for the aftermath. She was  _not_ the cuddly type. An interest in self preservation had meant her last few encounters had been uncomplicated, anonymous, and necessarily brief. She was the type who already had her boots back on before the guy could come back from disposing of the condom.

Most guys hadn't minded. Killian wasn't most guys.

And this wasn't just another hook up.

This was... comfortable. She was spent, sore. Basking in the heat of him, in his languid, content smile as he traced lazy circles into her skin with his fingertips. Leaving was the furthest thing from her mind.

"Killian?"

"Mmm?" He was too busy planting a lazy kiss to the curve of her shoulder to respond fully.

"If David hadn't warned you off me, would we have done this five years ago?"

She held her breath as his lips stilled against her neck, wishing she could see his face.

"You wanted to ask me that before," he said quietly. "But you stopped yourself."

She had. Back in their office after she'd first found out about David's... interference. She'd been curious to know then how much that had dictated their relationship for the last five years. And the way things stood now, she  _really_ needed to know. And why didn't it surprise her that Killian knew this about her?

"I think deep down you know there has always been some interest on my part, Swan." Killian began, his breath against her neck causing a shiver to ripple down her spine. "Maybe not... always laden with the best of intentions. Especially in the beginning," he admitted, chuckling lightly. "So I can't say I entirely blame the man for stepping in when he did. And you've since revealed you actually kind of hated me at first, so perhaps he merely saved me the trouble of getting my arse handed to me by a very irate Swan?"

"I probably should amend that." Emma corrected, leaning back in his arms so that she could see his face again. "I don't think I ever really  _hated_ you. Not really. I thought you were frustrating, and brilliant, and far too cocky for your own good."

"You forgot attractive," Killian prodded, with a bump of his shoulder to hers.

"Oh yeah! And how could I forget? My usurper was pure liquid sex, wrapped in a leather jacket. Just my luck." She gave a dramatic sigh.

"Liquid sex?" The stupid grin on Killian's face was growing wider, and more cocky by the second.

"Yeah, yeah, I think you're hot. Is that really news?" Emma asked, brushing a bare leg against his own, illustrating exactly how much she clearly didn't mind being so close to him.

"Perhaps not." He frowned, thoughtfully. "But a man likes to be told."

"Certainly this man," Emma mumbled, a trace of teasing.

"Okay, that's it," said Killian with an air of finality, rolling away from her and getting up from his side of the bed, no apparent need for modesty.

"What are you doing?" she asked warily, sitting upright. Killian crossed to her side of the bed without a word, and gathered her into his arms, Emma squealing in surprise as she clutched at his arms.

"What are you doing?" she repeated as he crossed the room, her voice a few octaves higher, although she was forming a fairly good guess at where this was heading.

He lowered his face down to hers, blue eyes gleaming with intent.

"We're having a shower, Emma. And we may be some time." And with a few more steps, he reached over to turn on the overhead light, kicking the bathroom door shut behind them.

* * *

It wasn't technically snooping. Not when he had specifically instructed her to search his bag for toothpaste. The night had faded into that strange time stuck somewhere between too late and too early, and even the sounds of the city outside the window seemed dulled. She was wearing the godawful t-shirt, and a smile that said she had been too thoroughly fucked to care. A smile that faded somewhat when her fingers came into contact with something in the pocket of his duffel that was decidedly not toothpaste.

She drew it out, tracing the edges with her fingers. It was the same crumpled photo she'd carried around for days. Killian. The younger, less scarred version. A tiny trace of invulnerability to his smile which had since faded with youth.

"Swan?" Killian's head peered around the bathroom door, shortly followed by the rest of him, clad only in a towel, slung dangerously low on his hips. A distracting enough sight, until she looked up and saw him stop short, when he realized what she was holding.

"Ah," he said, drawing closer, a hand coming up to scratch his left ear. "I meant to throw that away."

"But you didn't."

"But I didn't," he agreed. They shared a meaningful glance.

"I was wondering..."

"Swan?" He took a step closer.

"I was wondering if you'd let me hold onto it?"

Emma wasn't stupid. She knew the man in that photograph wasn't hers. He was Milah's, and frozen in time as he was, he always would be. But maybe that was okay. She had plenty of ghosts of her own, after all, and she still had to make awkward small-talk with one of them on a semi-regular basis. And if Killian could accept that part of her would always reluctantly care about Neal, then she could accept this too. Protect it, even.

"You want to... keep it?" He looked as if that's the last thing he expected her to say.

"People have photos of their boyfriends in their wallets, right?" she asked blithely, smoothing it as best she could between her fingers. "That's a thing. I'm sure that's a thing."

"Boyfriend?" He raised a single eyebrow, his concerned expression quickly morphing into something else entirely.

"Yeah. I mean..." She lowered her gaze. God. It was so pathetically high school of her. "If you want."

Killian took that last step forward, using one hand to lift her chin to look back into his eyes, which were traced in amusement. "Are you asking me to go steady, Emma Swan?"

"Would that make you feel less easy for putting out before the third official date, Killian Jones?" Killian chuckled, grasping her left hand in both of his own.

"I would be honored, Emma," he said, before turning her hand over, and sealing his acceptance with the press of a kiss to the inside of her palm that left her whole arm tingling. It felt intensely personal, like a promise.

Emma smiled, twirling the photograph between the fingers of her free hand.

"To both?" she clarified.

"To both."

He continued the quest for toothpaste on his own, and a pair of sweatpants, whilst Emma slipped the photograph into her wallet, beside her picture of an 8 year old Henry riding his bike, a wide smile revealing two missing front teeth. She stared fondly for perhaps a bit too long, because before she knew it, Killian was waving Emma's new toothbrush in front of her face, already laden with toothpaste. It was pink. Glittery. And utterly ridiculous. _Shiny,_ said an unbidden voice. She didn't comment, just raised a solitary eyebrow. He shot her a wink in the bathroom mirror.

"Can we go to sleep now?" Emma asked wearily, this scarily domestic scene drawing to a close. For all of her attempts at a caffeine overdose during the day, Emma was beginning to feel all of those sleepless nights of the last few weeks begin to press on her eyelids, not to mention the night's other, more eventful, developments.

"Oh, gods yes," Killian replied, leading her back to the bed, where they collapsed together, a tangle of tired limbs.

"Did you have a nice birthday, Swan?" He asked absently, as he reached across her to turn out the lamp.

"I did," she smiled in the dark, pulling him back towards her.

"And you'll still respect me in the morning?"

She reached for him, tracing the outline of his face, before patting his cheek affectionately. "We can only hope."

* * *

Emma awoke to the sound of thunder cracking open the sky, the shock of it enough to have her sitting bolt upright, the sound reverberating through her tired brain. She stretched out a hand, but the other side of the bed was empty. Cold.

"Killian?" She asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

"Here, love."

With a flood of relief, Emma rolled over to the edge of the bed, to see Killian's form in the gray light, sat down on the carpet by the bed, dressed only in sweatpants, watching the progress of the storm over Midtown through the window.

He was still there.

Groaning, Emma rolled off the edge of the bed, landing with a small thump on the carpet beside him, adjusting the "I Heart NY" shirt she'd gotten twisted up in during the night.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, bringing an arm around her shoulders to draw her to his side.

"Morning," she replied, nuzzling into his shirt, still fighting off the last remnants of sleep. "Storm wake you up, too?"

"Aye. Albeit a little earlier than you. It's been raging for quite a while now. Lovely weather for ducks."

"What's the time?" Emma couldn't tell, in this stormy half light. Everything looked gray out the window, filtered through rain-splattered glass.

Killian consulted his phone, which lay on the carpet beside him.

"10:13am." Emma felt something inside her lurch uncomfortably.

"Oh shit!" She stood up. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."

"Problem, Swan?" He seemed almost amused at the way she was began to pace in front of the window.

"I promised I'd have brunch with Mary Margaret and Ruby today. At 11!"

"In Boston?"

"Yes, in Boston! Where I'm supposed to be!" She couldn't believe she'd forgotten.

"Well," he examined the time again, "that's clearly not happening."

"I'm going to be so late." Even skirting traffic laws, she wouldn't get home for hours. Especially not in this weather.

"Or... you could just stay here..." He said, using the side of the bed to pull himself up to his full height. "With me."

"This is all your fault to begin with, buddy!" She aimed an accusing finger at his chest. "With your designer jacket, and your full honesty, and your come hither eyes."

"Come hither eyes?" He repeated, the smugness creeping back.

"You  _know_  what I'm talking about!" He didn't deny it, just shook his head mirthfully.

Emma rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. "I can't believe I'm one of those girls!"

"One of  _those_ girls?"

"The kind of girl who ditches her friends at the first opportunity as soon as she lands a guy. I  _hate_ those girls."

"Emma." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "They're your friends. They'll understand."

"Yeah, but-"

"Do you regret last night?"

"No, but-"

"Nor do I. Sometimes we just get caught up. And sometimes it's worth it." He gave her a very direct look. The kind that made her insides melt a little, when she didn't look away.

_He made a convincing case._

Emma groaned, leaning forward to brush a kiss to his lips.

"I have to make a call."

* * *

Out of any other real options, dressed as she was in her highly glamorous get-up, Emma barricaded herself in the bathroom, phone clutched in her hands as she balanced carefully on the edge of the bathtub.

She'd been praying for voicemail, so naturally, Mary Margaret picked up after two rings.

"Emma! You're just on speaker. Ruby's here. We're just in the car now." Two for one.  _Even better._

"Happy Birthday! Late Birthday! Kind of Birthday!" Ruby shouted from the passenger seat.

"Thanks. Listen, er... guys. That's what I'm calling about. I'm really sorry, but I'm not going to make it. I'm ... still in New York."

"Are you kidding?" Ruby. Of course Ruby.

"Oh." Mary Margaret's disappointment was more tempered, but no less apparent.

"I am so sorry. I swear I'll make it up to you. Both of you. Henry made me stay for a birthday dinner, and then with the storm I..."

" _Oh."_ Uh oh.

"Oh?" She heard Ruby ask.

"Does this have anything to with a certain call David got last night?"

"Call?" Even Emma didn't believe the innocence in her voice.

"About a certain Irishman following you to New York..." Fuck. Did those Nolans have to know everything as it happened? They were better than CNN.

"Oh my god, what?" Ruby at least sounded pleased. "Please tell me you finally got some.  _Please._ "

"Umm..."

"You did! She did!"

Emma debated her response. But what were friends for, if you couldn't share in the little victories?

"May possibly have got some," she finally admitted, before she was drowned out with Ruby's squeals of delight. She heard the unmistakeable sounds of a high five, and possibly the beep of a horn of a frustrated fellow motorist. Dear god, please don't let them get into a car accident over this.

"You worked things out?" Trust Mary Margaret to ask the real questions.

"Yeah, we worked things out."

"I'm really happy for you, Emma."

"Thanks."

"Congratulations on the sex!" Ah, Ruby.

"Aaand... I'm hanging up now."

 _"_ We'll reschedule brunch. Have a good weekend, Emma. Say hi to Killian from me."

"And me!"

Emma hung up, smiling ruefully at her phone, before walking out to the bedroom. Killian was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling a blue sweater over his head.

"Ruby and Mary Margaret say hi," she announced, sitting down beside him.

"Oh, I heard."  _Of course he did._

"Does this mean you're staying?" he asked, hopefully.

"I'm staying." He grinned victoriously, leaning across to kiss her, morning breath and all.

"Hungry, love?"

"Starved."

"Room service?"

"God yes." The idea of leaving the room for any reason was torturous.

"Good thing. You'll be needing your energy, Swan."

* * *

"You don't have to come up with me, you know?" Emma said, as they bundled into the elevator.

"Oh, I know. But I kind of want to see the look on the lad's face when he realizes his devious plan worked."

"Fine, but do you remember what I said about Neal?"

Killian sighed, and recited his lines back. "Punching is bad. Glaring is fine."

Emma tapped him on the nose with the tip of her finger. "You're so smart."

"I'm not just a pretty face, Swan." He winked, before the elevator shuddered to a halt on Neal's floor.

"I'm serious." Emma reminded him, as she left him down the corridor. "I don't care if he opens the door wearing a sign on his forehead saying "Punch Me." He's getting married in a week. If he has a black eye in his wedding photo, I will  _never_ hear the end of it."

"I've got it, love," he said, as they came to a stop outside the apartment door. "Ready?"

Emma nodded, and Killian leaned forward to knock on the door.

The door swung open, revealing a beautiful woman in a Lacoste jogging suit. Tamara. The inner calm she normally exuded somewhat tempered by the fact her usually immaculately straightened hair was standing up at odd angles, and a ballpoint pen was tucked behind one ear.

"Emma," she smiled in her usual polite way, when Emma gave her a small wave of greeting. She turned to Killian, considering him for a moment. "And you must be Killian Jones. Plus One. The salmon option."

"That's me," he nodded politely, with a brief shake of her hand.

"Come inside, guys. Mind the mess. Henry's just packing up the last of his stuff."

The cause of Tamara's anxieties became noticeable as soon as they stepped through the door. The living room, which had been so neatly ordered on Friday, was now groaning under the weight of all manner of wedding paraphernalia.

"Whoa," Emma couldn't quite believe it was the same room.

"Henry, your Mom is here!" Tamara called down the hall.

"You seem to have the wedding preparations well in hand, then?" Killian asked politely, motioning to the seating charts and place settings littered across every available surface.

Tamara barked out an unfunny laugh. "Oh yeah, sure. Only if you don't include a screw-up with the caterers, the church, the florist  _and_ the ring-bearer."

"Ouch." Emma had no idea what to say.

"I swear to god, I'm just waiting for the next thing to go wrong. A phone call saying my flower girl has gotten the chickenpox? A screw-up at the tailors? At this point, I'm about 99% ready to just elope."

Which was precisely the moment Neal walked into the room.

"We're eloping?"

"One more goddamn thing, Neal Cassidy, and yes, we are. Fuck the deposits, I'll take your ass right down to City Hall." Emma didn't miss the look that passed between them. Something warm, and battle-weary. She caught Killian's eye, who raised an eyebrow. Emma shook her head.

"Oh." Neal seemed to realize they had an audience. "Hi Ems." She felt his gaze slide between her and Killian, taking in Friday's clothes, the easy smiles, Killian's possessive hand on her hip. "Killian."

"Neal," Killian nodded, with something approaching civility.

"Good weekend?" Neal asked, as if he really would prefer not to know.

"Sublime," Killian answered, his heated gaze never leaving Emma's face. Emma elbowed him in the ribs, feeling her cheeks heating up.

"Right. Well as you can see, we've been stuck with wedding stuff. I think Henry will be glad to get outta here, to be honest."

"You have  _nooo_ idea," came Henry's voice, as he began walking down the hallway, dragging his backpack on the carpet behind him.

"Henry," said Emma sharply. "That's not very nice."

"No, it's okay." Tamara waved it away. "He's been a real trooper. I don't begrudge him an escape. Hell, I'm tempted to leave with you guys myself."

"Guys?" And that's when Henry looked up and saw Killian standing in his father's living room, beside Emma. "Holy smokes! It worked!"

"Holy smokes?" Neal cut in. "What the hell you been watching, kid?"

Henry ignored him, to examine the newly minted couple firsthand.

"So you guys are like, really together now?" Emma cast a glance at Tamara, who was busy trying not to appear like she was laughing, a bridal magazine obscuring most of her face.

"Uhh...Yeah."

"And you're coming home with us?" he asked Killian, eagerly.

"Hang on just one second there, kiddo." Emma clapped him on the shoulders. "He's getting a ride back to Boston with us. He's not a stray. We're not... keeping him."

"No?" Killian asked, winking at Henry.

"Don't encourage him!" She whacked him on the arm, before looking back to her son. "Henry, say goodbye to your Dad and Tamara, we'll meet you at the elevator." And then Emma dragged Killian out into the hallway, before she hit him again.

"And you thought that was gonna be fun?!"

"That  _was_ fun, love."

"I can't believe it. You might actually be worse than Henry."

"Your taste in men continues to astound, love." He grinned. "And just think, only another four hours in the car together."

"One more word, and I'm leaving you on the side of the interstate."

"You wouldn't." His eyes narrowed.

"Wouldn't I?"

"She wouldn't," Henry interrupted them. "She's threatened to leave me on the side of the road loads of times. She never does."

"Yeah, well," Emma grumbled. "In your case it's illegal."

"So," Henry looked between them. "What did you guys do all weekend?"


	22. Chapter 22

"Did we miss it?" Emma asked, hunching over in front of the departure board, scanning for Killian's flight number, trying to catch her breath.

When Emma had insisted on picking up and driving Killian to the airport on Thursday morning, she hadn't quite taken into account Henry's reluctance at being dragged downstairs at 6 in the morning, still clutching the Hot Pocket Emma had used to bribe him out of bed. Or a two car smash in the Ted Williams Tunnel. Or the significant dearth of short-term parking anywhere near the terminal.

"There!" Killian pointed, at the screen. "It's boarding!" he announced, grabbing her hand and dragging her over to the security checkpoint.

"You don't need to check in?"

He released her hand to pull his phone out of his pocket, waving it in front of her. "Already did."

"That's a thing now?"

Killian shrugged. "Evidently." He stowed it back in his pocket.

"I can go with you, you know?" Emma reminded him, with a bump of her elbow. "Just say the word, and I'll drop Henry off at school and be on the next flight out."

"Thank you. But that's unnecessary." His smile tight, he reached over to take her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles reassuringly. "This is my mess to sort out, not yours." Emma opened her mouth to argue, but one look from Killian made her reconsider, settling for giving his hand a small squeeze instead.

"Besides," he reasoned. "Someone has to actually make an appearance at the office. Remind the Nolans why they still bother employing us."

"Well,  _I'm_ not the one who-" An approaching figure left her words hanging in midair. "Hang on, is that who I think it is?"

It was. August W. Booth. Striding purposefully towards them, a familiar duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and his motorcycle helmet tucked in the crook of his arm.

"What are  _you_  doing here?" asked Emma, taking a small step in front of Killian, as he came to stand before them.

Rather than appear intimidated by the way Emma was glaring at him, he merely offered an enigmatic smile. "I've been instructed to make sure Mr Jones makes it to San Diego safely in time for his appointment." His amused eyes flickered between them, taking in their still-linked hands. "Well, don't you two look like you patched up all your differences?"

"No thanks to your meddling," Killian muttered under his breath, dropping Emma's hand to shift his bag from one shoulder to the other.

"Ah, well, you know what they say..."

"Oh yeah, and what do they say?" Emma asked, crossing her arms over her chest, just daring him to make a smart-ass remark.

August smiled, undeterred. "A love declared but untested is no love at all..."

August didn't miss the brief glance that flickered between the two at his words. _  
_

"Ohhhh." He shot them a knowing look that made Emma want to punch him. "So you haven't gotten to that part yet? Well, now that's interesting."

"That's not your concern," Emma said, shaking off his words. She took another step forward, meeting the man's gaze directly. "You're only concern is making sure Killian gets back from his appointment safe and sound. Or you'll have me to deal with."

"And how do you think you'd do that again? Since you had so much luck finding me the first time..."

"Believe me, I'll be plenty motivated." She allowed an edge of menace to creep into her voice, her hands dropping to her sides.

"Well that's neither here nor there. Mr Jones is in excellent hands, I assure you, Emma."

"You'd better hope so."

He cocked his head to the side. "Or you could just trust me."

"Or I could just punch you in the face," Emma smiled sweetly in contrast to her words, before Killian yanked her back by her elbow.

"Careful, Swan," he warned, his voice low beside her ear. "As much as I rather like this new protective streak of yours, let's not unduly antagonize the man."

"A fine idea." August clapped his hands together. "And on that note, it might be time to, uh, expedite this little goodbye?" He pointed to the monitor nearby, which indicated the flight status was now at Final Call.

Emma's eyes widened in alarm. Any second now they'd be calling their names over the loudspeakers.

"Yeah, I gotta go. I don't think leaving Henry with the Bug still idling in the drop-off zone was such a good idea." She went to take a step away, but Killian's grip on her arm didn't let her get far.

"Is that all the goodbye I am going to get?" He asked, taking the last step towards her with more swagger than was strictly necessary.

"You'll be back tomorrow, right?" She asked searchingly. "For the drive up to Maine?"

"Aye, Scouts honor."

Emma narrowed her eyes, disbelieving. "You were never a scout."

"Worse," he grinned. "A  _Catholic_  Boy Scout."

"Seriously?" Emma didn't have time to languish in her incredulity, because one second Killian's duffel dropped to the linoleum floor with a thud, and the next she found her mouth pressed to his, hot and insistent. No mere goodbye kiss, she had to grab his shoulders to keep herself steady, and when he deepened the kiss with a swipe of his tongue, only his arm wrapped around her waist kept her anchored to the floor.

When they broke apart, eventually, breathing still labored, Emma snuck a quick glance at August over Killian's shoulder, who seemingly hadn't bothered to avert his gaze at all at their public display of affection. Of course he hadn't. She turned her attention back to Killian, who was grinning, what Emma had since come to recognize, as his familiar, post-kiss Cheshire Cat grin.

"That wasn't very Catholic," Emma murmured, unable to contain her smile.

"Perhaps not," Killian mused, brushing back a stray lock of hair from her face. "But a worthy goodbye for a pretty lady."

"Such a charmer," she rolled her eyes in amusement, reaching down to pick up his bag, holding it out to him. "Text me when you land, okay?"

"Yes, darling." He chuckled, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth, before taking the bag from her hands as he stepped back.

"And be careful."

"You don't have to worry about me, Swan," he called, walking backwards towards the security checkpoint, where August was already removing his shoes under the watchful eye of a TSA agent.

"Humor me!" She called back, fixing the pair of them with one last warning look, before turning around and taking off, before her son could get in too much trouble with an airport parking attendant.

* * *

The more Emma thought about it, the more it just seemed like a bad idea all over. Teenager or not, Ben was an unknown variable. On his own turf. And Killian had just run the gamut of airport security, rendering him practically defenseless, their usual tools of the trade not exactly suitable for domestic air travel.

No mace. No cuffs. No taser. And sure as hell no back-up.

Not that she was necessarily comfortable with reasonable force used against minors, no matter their motives. Even emancipated ones. But August was certainly fair game.

Even his switchblade needed to be left behind, Emma finding it tucked inside the pocket of the leather jacket he'd left on the front seat for her, when she returned to the car. She concerned herself with the weapon now, entranced with the way the blade slid back and forth, too fast for the human eye, until a rap of knuckles on her office door startled it from her grasp.

"You okay?" David asked, taking a hesitant step inside, manila folder clutched between his fingers.

"Yeah, I'm..." She looked up, not feeling like finishing the rest of her lie. "Got a job for me?"

"If you want it." He tossed the file onto her desk, on top of the knife she'd just dropped. Emma snatched it up immediately, perusing the contents.

"Felix Croft," she read aloud. "18. Arson. Set fire to... his step-father's car. Ouch. No happy families for Felix."

"He missed his court appearance this morning. I was hoping you could pick him up?"

"Sure," Emma agreed, closing the file and placing it down on the desk. "Just let me make a few inquiries to his nearest and dearest."

"Thanks." He paused in the doorway. "And Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"I didn't just see a blade which is illegal to carry under Massachusetts State Law sitting on your desk, did I?"

Emma looked down to where the knife still lay, 4 inches of steel glinting defiantly under the office's fluorescent lights.

"Uh... no, boss?" she said, hurriedly stuffing it into a desk drawer.

David just gave a serene smile, tapping the door frame on his exit.

"That's what I thought."

Once a cop, always a cop.

* * *

Felix Croft was a tricky customer. Which is not to say his movements weren't pretty easy to follow from his Facebook. A buddy of his at the pizza parlor where he worked as a delivery driver was only too happy to share the contents of his News Feed with Emma, after a smile and a wink. She hadn't even had to order a slice.

She found young Felix in a favored haunt, down on the boardwalk at Revere Beach, a scruffy, blonde-haired youth with glassy eyes huddled on the low concrete wall with a small group of similar looking contemporaries, sharing a furtive joint between them. Emma, in her oversized leather jacket and ripped jeans didn't set off alarm bells on her approach. Not immediately. Not until she was practically on top of them, pulling her cuffs from her pocket.

"So I hear you like fire, kid."

His friends scattered like roaches, contraband trampled underfoot in haste, but Felix didn't scare so easy, rising steadily to his feet.

"Miss any important appointments this morning? Like a court date, maybe?" she goaded him. His grey eyes were cold, the hint of a scar she'd seen earlier on his profile picture, now a stark red contrast against his pale cheek.

"He give you that?" Emma asked, brushing her thumb across her cheek to mirror his own. She thought back to the name of the owner of the burnt out car. "Peter?" A second of hesitation.

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, you stupid bitch," Felix growled. But that delayed reaction was all Emma needed to confirm her suspicions, if the cryptic poetry posts and blatant hostility hadn't already.

When he pulled a knife, Emma really regretted leaving Killian's blade behind, if just to even the odds.

Luckily for her, Felix's fighting skills tended more towards the virtual, and a swift kick to the wrist disarmed the boy. A second behind his knee had him on the ground, with a mouthful of sand. She waited until she had a knee in the middle of his back, and his wrists bound before she pulled up her own sleeve, to show him.

"See this?" She pointed to a ring of scar tissue on the inside of her wrists, partially obscured by a small tattoo.

"A dumb flower?" He spat into the sand.

"Not the buttercup, genius. The scars. See 'em?" She held her wrist up close to his face, where it was shiny and uneven. "He used to put his cigarettes out on my skin when I annoyed him. I annoyed him a lot."

"He your real Dad?" She almost didn't hear the question, so soft were his words. A stunning contrast to his earlier venom.

"I never knew my real Dad," Emma admitted, pulling him to his feet.

"Me neither," he mumbled, allowing himself to be dragged out into the parking lot.

He pulled up short when he clapped eyes on their ride. "Please tell me you're not really taking me to the station in this piece of shit?"

"Oh, a car snob huh?" Emma pulled open the door, and shoved him into the backseat. "That's pretty rich, coming from the guy who torched a Mercedes."

"He had it coming," he muttered darkly.

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Emma replied, reaching over to secure his cuffs to a steel ring that she'd specially installed into the floor of the Bug for this very purpose. No one wanted a skip bailing while the car was in motion. It was... messy. "Gotta feel for the car, though."

"Skipping bail wasn't your smartest move," Emma advised, as she slid into the driver's seat, turning around to make sure her passenger wasn't going anywhere. He just rolled his eyes at beginnings of the lecture. "Your mom was the one who put up your bail money. She could do with that money, when she leaves him."

He snorted. "She's not gonna leave him."

"No?"

"He's a dentist who wears pressed khakis and loafers," he spat. "No one believes a guy like that would hurt their kids. Not even my Mom."

"That's interesting. Because your Mom and I had a little discussion earlier, and something tells me she's coming around to your side of the story."

"What?" He looked like he'd been trout-slapped.

"Let's just say, maybe a few things are starting to add up, in a way they didn't before."

One look at Felix's file, and Emma had seen the signs. And after gifting a box of donuts to her local police district (sometimes the stereotypes were true) she'd gotten a glimpse into the step-father's past. A battery charge in his twenties. Twice investigated, but never charged for allegations of child abuse towards children from his previous relationships. She'd left a copy of her findings with Felix's mother, along with Regina Mills's business card.

Emma gave a satisfied smiled, turning back to the front to start the ignition, before catching the kid's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "You might want to stop torching luxury cars though, so your Mom can afford a hell of a divorce attorney."

* * *

She told herself that she wasn't freaking out. But when midnight had come and gone, and the only word from Killian had been the obligatory  **Landed. KJ.** Emma couldn't kid herself any longer. She dialed his number, biting back a frustrated yell when it bounced straight to voicemail. She tried twice more before her phone made a dent in the drywall. Good thing she'd insisted on impact-resistant cases after the Galileo incident.

She'd almost fallen into a semi-conscious state when she heard her phone vibrate on the night stand. Bleary-eyed, Emma grabbed for it, her eyes struggling to adjust to the illuminated screen in the dark.

A text. Received at 2:15am.  **Knock Knock. KJ.**

It was either the set-up for a very unwelcome knock knock joke, or...

Emma fought to rid herself of her blankets in a hurry, before padding down the hall, and peering through the peephole in her front door. There stood Killian Jones, leaning on the wall opposite, waving a weary hand at the door. She scrambled to undo the deadbolt.

"Why didn't you call me?" Emma asked, pulling open the door in a hurry. "I would have picked you up."

He didn't look good. Handsome, always. But there was a tightness in the way he was holding his jaw, as if his composure was a rubber band, poised to snap. His eyes were bloodshot, from tiredness, or travel, or crying, or all three.

"I took a cab," he shrugged, dropping his bag to the floor, wasting not another second in stepping forward and wrapping her in his arms, dropping his head to lean on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" She asked, reaching up to let her fingers run through his hair, the same way she did with Henry when he was upset.

"No," he mumbled into the fabric of her shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked gently.

A few ragged breaths. "No."

"In the morning?" He pulled back a little to look at her, and gave a tired nod.

"C'mon," she said, offering her hand for him to take. "Sleep now, worrying later."

He looked at her offered hand as if he didn't understand her words."What... what about the lad?"

Emma reached forward and grabbed his hand anyway, slipping her fingers between his.

"He's asleep. Like you should be."

"If it's too confusing for him..." He pointed in the direction of the living room, and Emma squeezed his hand tighter in hers until he shut up.

"This was bound to happen sooner or later. And if I have to save you from an uncomfortable night on that couch, then so be it."

"You're sure?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "I'm sure. We're  _just_ sleeping, mind you. He's ten, and sometimes he gets bad dreams."

"Just sleeping sounds pretty good right now," he admitted, leaning down to pick up his bag from where he'd left it on the floor. "Lead the way, Swan."


	23. Chapter 23

Emma woke feeling cold, bereft. When she'd fallen asleep, Killian's chest had been pressed against her back, one of his arms slung over her shoulder. She'd enjoyed basking in the heat of him, the presence of another person in her bed still a little strange, but kind of nice too. Her eyelids struggling against the grey of the approaching dawn, she could tell they were no longer entwined.

She rolled over, sliding her hands across the bed, seeking out his warmth, gratified when her fingers touched flesh. But the skin of his torso was cool under her fingers, and the shock of it had Emma opening her eyes properly at last, making out her boyfriend's figure in the half light.

Killian was sat up against the headboard, his blankets pooled around his legs. He was holding something, rotating it between his fingers. Emma leaned forward a little, trying to work out what it was.

It was the snow globe he'd left for her, the morning after their first fight.

"You kept it," he murmured softly, noticing her eyes on him. He turned his head away slightly, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his other hand, as if to conceal all evidence of the tear tracks she'd already spied on his cheeks. She didn't mention them.

"Yeah, well," She pulled herself up to sit up beside him, pulling up the covers to her chin, trying to shake the fog of sleep from her brain. "I thought about giving it to Henry to use for one of his gravity experiments, but it turns out I'm not  _quite_  that petty." She elbowed him lightly in the ribs to know she was joking, but his answering half-smile fell a little flat.

All was not okay in Killian Land.

"Hey," she said gently. She reached over, gently prising the snow globe from his grip, placing it down on the nightstand, and turning back to him. "Just tell me. Whatever it is."

He swallowed thickly, nodding, still averting his gaze ever so carefully from hers.

"He looks like her. A lot. Especially around the eyes," he said, brushing his thumb over his brow unconsciously.

"I hear there's a lot of that going around," Emma murmured, with a small squeeze to his forearm.

"Aye. He sent August to spy on me because he wanted to know what kind of person I was. And then when he found out what I do for a living, he wanted to test me."

"Test you?"

"He wanted to get my measure, Swan. As a man. As an investigator. A boyfriend. I think he found me lacking in all areas, truth be told, but he felt he needed to be fully informed before he extended his... offer."

"Offer?" Emma asked gingerly, clutched her blanket tighter around herself. "What kind of offer?"

Killian turned to her finally, their eyes properly meeting for the first time since she'd awoken. She'd never seen quite so much of a storm raging behind those eyes.

"When Ben came of age, he came into possession of all of his mother's worldly goods. Photographs. Jewellery. Bank accounts. And... correspondence."

"Correspondence?" The way he'd said it made it sound more ominous than the typical postcard collection.

"It was sorted along with her legal documents. When he first opened it, he thought it was a suicide note..." Emma's grip on his arm tightened.

"It wasn't a suicide note." His breathing became shallower with each new reveal. "It was a note Milah had written just prior to her death, and had mixed with her things, in the apparent hopes it would find it's way to her lawyers. But they never opened it. No one did. Until Ben."

"Killian..."

"It was..." and here his voice finally cracked, "a note accusing Robert Gold of her impending murder."

* * *

"Holy shit!"

In that moment, Emma didn't care that her son lay sleeping just down the hall.

"Holy shit!"

Killian nodded, rubbing his face in the palms of his hands, appearing to blink back tears.

"Ben's convinced the letter is genuine," he added, voice wavering, "And on inspection, so am I."

"He really killed her?" Emma asked in a small voice.

"That is for the state of California to decide," Killian said in a strangled voice, before Emma did what she should have done ten minutes before and pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered into his hair, her own eyes filling with unbidden tears. "I'm so, so sorry."

He shook his head, but didn't try to move away, allowing himself to be held.

It could have been seconds, or it could have been minutes, but when he eventually pulled away, his breathing was back under control, his gaze more steady.

"The offer Ben proposed was that I move back to San Diego and resume my work on Milah's case. This time with him footing the bill."

Emma felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

"He thinks that with the discovery of the letter, they would stand a good chance of getting the case officially re-opened by the authorities. But considering Robert Gold's position, and sphere of influence, it has to be done right. It would take a good deal of groundwork, and it has to be done discreetly."

"So you're going?" Emma tried to keep her tone far away from resigned, but she didn't quite manage it.

"I told him no."

"You... what?" Surely Emma hadn't heard right.

"I told him no," Killian repeated, his voice surer the second time. "I'm not a cop. I'm not even a private detective. I find people, and I'm pretty decent at it, but murder investigations are not really in my wheelhouse."

"But you and James...?"

"Aye. When she first died, I admit I did make something of a nuisance of myself on the investigative front. But I also managed to exhaust all of those avenues at the time. Furthermore, I was so close to it I couldn't see what a risk I was. Let us not forget Robert Gold is a State Senator. He has a lot of powerful friends, and  _none_  of them want to see him land in prison, for their own sakes." Emma shuddered at the thought.

"It's dangerous. Dangerous for me. For anyone I care about." He gave her a direct look.

"And when your lead investigator was also intimately involved with the deceased, it's just another hole to poke in the case. There is also the fact that my sudden reappearance on the West Coast might gain Gold's attention. And that's the very last thing they need. I set him up with James, and his case files. Suggested a few contacts in the SDPD who aren't under Gold's thumb. That should be more than enough to get them started."

"And then there are the more practical concerns..."

"Those weren't practical concerns?" Emma arched one eyebrow.

Killian just gave her a rare half-smile, taking both of her hands in his. "I don't want to leave."

"Just can't get enough of those East Coast winters, huh?" She could feel the smile stretching across her cheeks.

"I spent a lot of years mourning Milah. Trying to do what I thought was right by her memory. Letting some blind quest for justice fuel me. Failing. Failing again. Always trapped in the past. I'm not prepared to go back to being that person, Emma. I didn't like who I was."

"I like who I am now." He took a deep breath.

"With you."

Emma felt the tear slide down her cheek, but she didn't bother brushing it away, too busy grabbing the back of his neck to bring his lips crashing to hers.

There was sadness in that kiss, the taste of him mingling with the salt of their tears. But there was also something else behind the sadness. Something a hell of a lot like a future.

* * *

When Emma next awoke, it was to the bright light of morning, feeling herself roused from sleep by the mischievous giggles of her son in another room, followed by the tell-tale whiff of something burning. Her eyes shot open, internal Mom sensors blaring. That was  _not_ a good combination.

She reached out a hand to where Killian lay, but the other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, wondering if he'd slipped out before Henry woke up, in spite of her earlier reassurances.

Then she heard a deep rumble of laughter mingle with Henry's, and she knew something was definitely up. She hurried to pull on a sweater, creeping down the hallway lightly in her socks, peering around the door frame.

Her kitchen was a mess. A fine layer of flour seemed to cover every available surface, cracked eggshells lay scattered on countertops, and butter was smeared on every cupboard handle of a certain height. In the middle of all this mayhem, stood by the stove, were an Iron Man in Spider-man pajamas and a Stormtrooper in sweatpants, each holding a frying pan, attempting what could only be described as amateur pancake acrobatics.

Iron Man attempted a particularly daring maneuver with the pan, emitting a defeated groan when his pancake missed the pan entirely, splattering to the floor. The Stormtrooper tried to swallow back a chuckle, patting the boy's shoulder in sympathy, before grabbing the now empty pan from him, placing it back on the stove, motioning for him to take a step back.

"Okay, lad, let's see if I can get this right." Holding his own pan in front, he pulled it away from himself, then flicked it back suddenly, both of them looking on with rapt attention as the pancake executed a text-book perfect flip.

Iron Man let out a small cheer and the Stormtrooper dropped the pan back onto the stove to raise both arms in victory, like he was Rocky Balboa and he'd just conquered the steps outside the Philadephia Museum of Art.

It was the cutest thing Emma had ever seen.

She took a step forward, posing herself by leaning on the door frame with her arms crossed over her chest.

"And what do you call this?"

The pair froze, and even through their helmets, Emma could tell they were sharing an identical  _Oh Shit_ moment.

"Happy Halloween, Mom!" said Iron Man, recovering quickly to launch himself at his mother, throwing his arms around her waist in a fierce hug. Staggering back a little at the weight of him, Emma leaned down a little to wrap her arms around his shoulders, looking over her son's head at the Stormtrooper wielding the spatula.

"Apologies, Swan," said the Stormtrooper, pulling off his helmet to reveal Killian's mess of dark hair, and a rueful smile.

"Henry caught me coming back from the bathroom, and somehow I found myself roped into..." he turned around to indicate the general chaos that was Emma's kitchen, "Whatever this is."

"Did you know Killian had never flipped a pancake before?" Iron Man asked, ending the hug and pulling himself up to sit on the counter.

"Heresy," Emma shook her head with a smile, taking the last few steps between her and the stack of pancakes that had so far survived the flipping process.

"To clarify, these haven't been on the floor, right?" she asked, reaching out to pick at the stack, before a spatula rapped her on the knuckles.

"Hey!" She drew her hand back in alarm, eyes narrowing.

"No one eats until we all eat," Killian warned, his spatula pointed at her like a third grade teacher with a ruler. "Right, Henry?"

"Right!" piped up his new best friend from where he sat, helmet pulled up, licking raw batter from the bowl with a spoon.

"He's eating!" Emma whined, jerking a thumb at her son.

"He's-" Killian whipped his head around, catching him in the act. "Henry! You little traitor!" Iron Man just cackled, letting the spoon clatter back into the bowl, pancake batter smeared on the front of his helmet.

Emma just rolled her eyes, grabbing a wad of paper towel to clean off her son's disguise. He dodged her at first, but she got him eventually, a hand on his shoulder to stop him wriggling away.

Halloween had always been Emma's favorite holiday growing up. It wasn't a family holiday. You got to pretend to be someone else for a night, and you were rewarded with a big bag of candy. No one asked you what you were grateful for. No one asked you to draw your family's holiday traditions down on a piece of paper. No one made you watch a bunch of schmaltzy movies about the real meaning of Christmas. Halloween movies were about singing skeletons and psychos wielding knives. Much more Emma's style.

Henry didn't have those kinds of hang-ups. Even before Neal had showed up again, he'd spent all of his holidays smothered in love and affection. As much as Emma, and later the Nolans, could spare. But like his mother, Halloween was his favorite.

"You've got a costume too, Mom!"

"Oh really?"

She turned around just in time to see the mask Killian tossed in her direction, catching it between her fingers. She turned it over in her hands, tracing the smooth black felt.

A Batman mask.

At least she could wear it  _and_ eat pancakes at the same time.

Securing the mask to her face with the elastic, she drew closer to the Stormtrooper bent over the stove, who'd replaced his helmet, and was now flipping his pancake in the usual way with his spatula.

"Hey," she said quietly, bumping his hip with hers. "You okay?"

"Better every second, Swan," the Stormtrooper replied, and Emma couldn't help but place a kiss to the side of his helmet, even if she knew he couldn't feel it.

"Gross!" Iron Man declared from across the room.

"I'll show you gross, kid," Emma said, turning on her son, and diving at him, intent on leaving no inch of Iron Man's helmet unkissed.

* * *

"Alright," said Emma, yanking off her mask, closing the bedroom door behind her. She faced down the man now sprawled on her bed, Stormtrooper helmet beside him. "We've got maybe ten minutes while Henry's in the shower. Time to spill."

Killian propped himself up on an elbow, and patted the bed beside him, an offer Emma didn't bother to resist, collapsing next to him with a sigh.

"And to think, for a moment there I thought you were propositioning me." He waggled his eyebrows, and Emma swatted him on the shoulder. She wasn't going to let him distract her from what she wanted to know.

"Are you really going to be okay?" she asked, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingers. "You don't  _have_  to come to Maine with us. If you don't want to be around happy people today, I'll understand. You don't have to pretend with me. If you want to just stay home, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, I won't hold it against you. I will even share my Netflix password with you."

"Emma," he groaned, wrapping an arm around her, and pulling her in closer. "I turned down his offer so that I could stop being that person."

"I know. And I love that. But no one said you to be happy right away."

"I am happy."

"You're happy?" She gave him the quizzical eye.

"Of course I am, Swan," he said, hugging her more tightly to him. "I've got my girl. I've got my pancakes. I've got my Stormtrooper helmet..."

"Stop it," she smacked at his chest. "I was being serious."

"As was I, Swan."

"Yeah, right."

He let his smug smile slip. "In all honesty, darling, I'm okay. Really. You don't need to worry about me."

"You always say that, but I never really believe it."

Killian smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I think worrying about someone you care for is kind of par for the course, darling."

"I'm starting to realize..."

It was a different kind of feeling than the frantic worry she had when it came to Henry's safety. Or the ever present knot in her stomach at the thought of Killian leaving, now she'd gotten undeniably attached. It was something else. Something that gnawed at her, and made her want to keep him forever in her line of sight, and not even for her own sake.

"I'm going to the wedding," he stated definitively.

"Yeah?"

"Aye. Wouldn't miss it. You in a... yellow dress, was it?" Emma sat up abruptly.

"You've been talking to Mary Margaret." Her eyes narrowed accusingly.

"I have. And she informs me I am in for  _quite_  the spectacle."

Emma groaned. "She really can't keep a secret to save her life."

"She really can't," Killian chuckled, rising from the bed, holding his hand out for her to take. "What say you, Swan? Shall we go and show these strangers just how much you won the break up?"

Emma smiled, shaking her head, reaching out to take his hand.


	24. Chapter 24

"C'mon, Swan," Killian's impatience was muffled through the door. "Give us a look."

Emma let out a shaky breath, clenching her hands at her sides. The carefully made up Emma who stared back at her in the bathroom mirror did the same. She just needed a minute. Just a minute.

It wasn't Killian's reaction she was worried about. She was wearing the yellow dress. She'd gotten the wings of her eyeliner just about even. Her hair had been loosely curled, golden tresses cascading down her back. She looked good. As good as she was gonna get. He should be so lucky.

That wasn't what had kept her stuck in this bathroom past her allotted time, carefully manicured nails digging into her palms, an odd tightening in her chest.

"You certainly know how to keep a man in suspense, darling!" Killian called from out in the hallway. "And I'm sure I'll be very appreciative of your efforts, but the wedding starts in ten minutes. So do you think you could maybe hurry things along?"

And there it was. The real reason for Emma's delay.  _The wedding._

Ever since the three of them had rolled into the quaint hamlet of Storybrooke, Maine the previous afternoon in Killian's Charger, it had been an endless flurry of last minute wedding preparations. Talking Henry through his best man responsibilities. Making sure his tiny tux fit properly. Helping to fold a million napkins into the shape of sailboats. Keeping Tamara from killing her younger sisters every time they found something new to dislike about their matching bridesmaid dresses. Keeping Tamara's ancient Aunt Dottie's wandering hands away from Killian's ass.

With all of her attention diverted elsewhere, Emma hadn't had all that much time to think about where all this crazy was eventually leading.

Neal. Tamara. Man and wife.

Not until she'd finally found herself sequestered in the tiny ensuite bathroom in Storybrooke's only bed and breakfast, had it really registered. She'd meant it when she'd said she didn't want Neal back. She didn't. But it hadn't stopped an invisible hand from reaching into her chest, and squeezing until it hurt. It hadn't stopped the familiar rush of rejection, the internal chant of  _Never you, Never you_ bouncing around the inside of her brain.

"Emma?"

His evident concern was enough to startle her out of her own thoughts. The concern of a man who'd willingly subjected himself to a five hour car trip the previous day, even if he'd spent most of that time unconscious, lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of Jim Dale's narration from Henry's book on tape. A man who'd laid on the charm from the moment they emerged from the car, his hair still mussed, accent thick from sleep, shaking hands and remembering names, agreeing to help with even the most menial of tasks. A man who'd laughed off an encounter with a handsy pensioner, and taken Neal's unsolicited comments in stride.

All because Emma had asked him to.

She was being ridiculous.

With one last glance at her reflection, Emma threw open the bathroom door, stepping back into the room they were to share for the weekend. Killian was pacing the three feet of spare floorspace restlessly, when his head shot up at the sound of the bathroom door slamming against the wall, and his mouth fell open.

Emma had already seen him resplendent in all his wedding finery, the exorbitantly expensive suit jacket merely the giftwrapping for a rather attractive package, but that didn't stop her pausing to admire it again, letting her eyes wander. His beard had been trimmed, his hair teased into something sinful and dangerous, his blue eyes seeking out hers, even as he stepped forward to take her hands in his, mouth still hanging open in a way that appealed to Emma's inner vanity.

She offered him a small smirk as their hands entwined, and he blinked, getting himself together.

"You look stunning, Swan." His words were quiet, and he imbued them with as much depth of feeling as he could muster. Which was no small amount, considering how Emma stumbled over her next words, as she tried to return the sentiment.

"I know," he smiled, letting some of his signature smirk creep back.

Annoyed at already losing the upper hand in their exchange, Emma motioned to the door leading out into the corridor. "Shall we?" she asked.

He linked his arm with hers, drawing her to his side, his other hand coming to rest on her arm. "We shall."

* * *

The service took place in the Storybrooke's only church, the same one Tamara's parents had been married in thirty five years earlier. It was postcard perfect, the white clapboard church just off the main square, grey steeple reaching to the sky, the maple tree outside a brilliant autumn red, the occasionally leaf tangling into the hair of unsuspecting guests as they waited to be ushered inside.

Whereas Emma would have been content with an unassuming place in the back, Tamara's parents had insisted Emma and Killian join them in the front pew, with the rest of the immediate family.  _Family._ Emma had expected reticence from these people. Suspicion, even. She was the unmarried ex-girlfriend of the groom, after all. Mother to his illegitimate son. A convicted felon, with an unusual job that usually didn't go down so well with the PTA. She'd screeched into town in a muscle car, a leather-clad Irishman in tow. What she hadn't expected, was warmth, and kindness. And yet, they'd been the consummate hosts.

With Tamara the oldest of her two sisters, and no grandchildren yet in sight, her parents had latched onto Henry in a big way. Fussing over his outfit. Making sure he ate enough. Asking about his favorite subjects in school. And having no grandparents of his own, he'd been content to lap up the attention, even taking up their offer to sleep in the spare room in their attic, rather than on the cot set up for him in their room at the B&B. Killian, especially, had appreciated that.

It was everything Emma had ever wished for Henry, to see him surrounded by people who doted on him, who saw what she saw in him. So sweet, and smart, and occasionally cheeky. A rather large part of her was still tempted to snatch him back from their grasp, and keep him all to herself. Like it used to be. But she resisted this urge, content to squeeze Killian's arm in delight through her tears when his big moment came, presenting Neal with the rings with slightly shaking hands, flashing Emma a proud smile when it was over.

And then came the vows, and Killian nudged Emma's foot with his own, a discreet glance checking if she was okay. They'd written their own, infused with humor and references to the life they had already cobbled together over four years. Emma hadn't had many opportunities to see the two of them work as a unit. Not really. She mainly dealt with Neal, and only when she had to for Henry's sake. But she couldn't deny that they seemed to work. Not every relationship would survive a surprise son springing up out of the woodwork, after all. Theirs had. Had probably weathered greater storms than that, even. They deserved to be happy.

Emma answered Killian's query with a serene smile, placing her head on his shoulder as she watched the bride and groom share their first kiss as a married couple. She joined the laughter when Henry made a face when they went back for a second kiss. And when the couple and the bridal party made their way past on the way back down the aisle, in a flurry of taffeta, she caught Neal's small nod, and offered one in return.

* * *

Three whisky neats later, her chin resting on Killian's shoulder as they spun in a lazy circle to a Rod Stewart hit, Emma could feel herself coming around to the idea of weddings. Though maybe that was the alcohol. And the company.

There were only a few couples left on the dancefloor, the hour being late, and most of the remaining guests well into their cups. Emma kicked a stray golden balloon across the dancefloor with her sandals, searching for her son in the dark. He was right where she left him, fast asleep, his tiny body laid across three chairs, bundled in his father's tuxedo jacket.

Neal and Tamara had made their excuses an hour earlier, changed back in their street clothes, their nearest and dearest pelting them with rice on their exit, Killian's aim seeming suspiciously accurate. They were off to the airport, eager for their honeymoon to begin. A warm Floridian vacation in sharp contrast to the freezing rain which had begun bucketing down halfway through the speeches, drowning out Tamara's sister in the middle of a particularly embarrassing teenage anecdote, to the relief of many.

They'd left the DJ spinning, and the bar tab open, and Emma was loathe to let either go to waste.

"Thank you," Emma murmured into Killian's neck.

"Hmmm?"

He pulled back a little to see her face, his eyes glassy, no more sober than Emma. "Thank you," she repeated. "For everything."

"For everything?" He rose one eyebrow.

She shrugged, returning to her position nestled into the crook of his neck. "For everything."

He didn't say anything for a minute or two, as if considering this, content to merely sway to the music.

"It was a pleasure, Swan," he said at last, placing a kiss to her temple.

Suddenly the music changed, a jaunty piano intro and Smokey Robinson's voice filled the room.

"Motown?" he grinned down at her, as Emma let her shoulders roll with the familiar beat.

"Always," she replied, the smile stretching across her face, letting him lead her into a spin.

"Careful, Swan," he warned, when she was facing him again. "No dancing on tables. We all know how well that works out for the table in question."

She trod on his foot in warning, but he merely drew her closer to him, steering them to a less crowded corner of the dancefloor.

"It's been a week and we haven't screwed this up yet," she murmured, a tone of surprise creeping in.

"Nor do I intend to." His gaze was level. "Not for a long time. Maybe never."

Emma froze, his hold on her loosening.

"Never?" It came out as much more of a squeak than she would have liked.

He swayed to a stop in front of her. "Are you saying you're opposed to a happy ending with me, Swan?" His eyes betrayed the seriousness of his question, even if there was still a curve of a smile on his lips, his escape route in case he needed to turn it into a joke.

"After a week?" A hint of incredulity in her tone.

"It was a really good week." He waggled his eyebrows, and it was so ridiculous, Emma smiled back despite herself, even as she grasped for the right words.

"I'm just..." She tried again. "I don't like to get my hopes up."

"Correction," he held one finger out before her. "You don't like getting hurt. I'm not a huge fan of it myself. But I don't intend to cause you harm, Emma."

"I know." Whatever else, that much was obvious.

"And I'm in love with you."

Emma felt her gut constrict tightly at his words, freely given, all traces of joking fleeing his lips.

"Oh?" She was squeaking again.

"Oh yes." Not a trace of doubt in his words.

Fearless. That's what he was. In a way that Emma had never been. Wasn't sure if she ever could be.

"Too much?" He asked, cocking his head to the side, a trace of nervousness creeping into his expression.

"No," she shook her head. "Just..." And then she saw the glimmer of doubt take over, and she knew she had to act. Because despite her cowardice, she knew how she felt. And he didn't deserve anything less than the truth.

She grabbed him by the lapels of his ridiculously expensive jacket and kissed him. It was everything that Emma wasn't. Sure. Confident. Unyielding. And when they broke apart, his sideways grin was back.

"Convincing?" he asked, forehead resting on hers.

"I love you," she replied simply.

"That's what I thought," he said, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, holding out his hand for her to hold. "Another dance?"

She placed her hand in his. "Always."

**THE END.**


End file.
